Tatooine Engagement
by Audreidi
Summary: One small delay on a Master's part is enough to change his Padawan forever. Chapter Thirteen: the delving into memories that are perhaps unwanted. An AU piece.
1. Fire and Ice

Tatooine Engagement

* * *

There is really nothing quite like the luxury of returned motion. Perhaps I occasionally carry this to the extreme, but I can hardly help it. I find one kata in particular to be especially invigorating.

Despite the oppressive heat of the binary suns, I keep my under-tunic on. Sunburn isn't something I wish to deal with, not now, and I'd never liked the feeling I received from grains of sand adhering to my sweat-dampened skin. The only downside to the clothing is the heat, forcing streams of perspiration down my forehead that I hardly notice in the depths of my concentration.

When I'd first learned this kata as a junior Padawan, the motions had felt ridiculous, like the bizarre uncoordinated dance of a lightly salted Arcona. That's what I had related to my Master, at any rate; he'd laughed and assured me that grace was a thing to be learned.

That fact became evident when I'd watched Master Medrik Bhen'ud perform it for me before she began teaching me the routine. Her small lithe frame tightened in every circle formed by what would have been wildly gesticulating limbs were it not for her exceptional control, making the whole kata a blur of spiralling magic refined with decades of practice. It helped, of course, to know that she was human as well, and if her sixty-year-old body (extremely honed but still aged in my opinion) could accomplish the difficult pattern, then so could I. The perseverance had paid off, and it hadn't taken me sixty years, either. Only one year of painful lessons.

The memory of the first few exercises still brings up a wince, and I quell the thought rapidly, wondering at the mind's ability to wander when it is supposed to remain in strict meditation.

It's no use keeping a tight rein. The time passes quickly when my thoughts meander the networked trails of my imagination. I fall to wondering how many Padawans have done katas in the Outer Rim while on missions. Although that is a moot point, since the assignment borne by my Master and me had never actually specified for us to come to the Outer Rim territories. Tatooine is a remote backwater planet, and I hope I'll never have the occasion to come back. It seems like a complete dump, a useless orbiting rock around an otherwise fascinating binary-sun system. I quickly assuage myself with reality; this desert planet will likely never again require my presence. With any luck, Qui-Gon and I will soon be back on Naboo, teasing out the wrinkles in the mercantilist mind of Nute Gunray.

My bare foot pounds the sand in finality, the rest of me coming to a complete halt. I stare down in mild astonishment at the faint ring of moisture I'd cast upon the grit, knowing now would be a good time to head back to the ship for a long deep drink of water. The loose sleeve of my tunic affords some relief as I wipe my face, the fabric absorbing the salty beads slowly. Wind gives no comfort here; it is as blistering as the suns themselves, whistling past the ridges of my ears in short heated bursts.

But now that sound becomes overridden with another, a faint mechanical buzz that comes to my ears in a slowly growing crescendo. I turn, trying to find the source of it, and discover it comes from somewhere on the other side of the glistening Nubian shuttle. Knowing I will be able to find this approaching object with an extra sense, I attune my inward senses to the Force again, this time stretching beyond myself.

A wave of cold washes over me, overcoming the suns for a moment. This is that _thing_ I'd been feeling, all the way back on one of the Trade Federation stations… and it is speeding my way with a tide of malicious intent.

I grit my teeth and race under the fluidly curved belly of the ship, my heels pumping against the loose sand. I hadn't seen any need to bring my lightsaber outside with me before. _Stupid._

I must admit, the sight is nothing less than astonishing. The minuscule dark speck rapidly expands to what could be positively identified as a humanoid on a strangely-built speeder. Then the occupant suddenly gives a flying leap, its body twisting into the air as the speeder flies off unguided and collides abruptly with a bank of sand.

The stranger (which I quickly catalogue as a Zabrak, though the intricate tattoos are rather distracting) ends his spinning arc with a felinoid-light landing upon the nearest dune, and a hostile pair of red eyes bores into me.

What I wouldn't give for that comforting metal cylinder to fit snugly into my palm just now, as I see the creature has one of his own, though at least twice as long as any I'd ever seen.

The Zabrak has one hand arched, fingertips meeting the sand, while the other holds out the lightsaber hilt with sinuous grace, arm parallel with the horizon, and to his credit remaining steady as stone, creating a masterpiece of a fighting position.

_Sithspawn,_ I think, _I'm finished. This thing's had some sort of hellishly effective training. _I won't weave any falsehoods; I am terrified, rooted to the ground for the barest moment. Any non-sensitive drunk can clearly see this poised demon is seething with murderous design, directed at me, a sweat-drenched Padawan standing rigid on the dune, scared witless. What a sight the whole scene must be.

I hear the whirring of the boarding ramp pistons slowly releasing their hold, and know the ship must have been alerted to the Zabrak's presence. Sure enough, the pilots we'd freed back on Naboo begin to pour out, blasters raised and ready.

I find myself shouting hoarsely, "Close the ramp! Close it!"

For the stranger's blood-red eyes had wavered as the ramp opened, flickering eagerly as the pilots came out. He is searching for an entrance, of that I have no doubt.

But why? What is there…

The answer presents itself finally. _The queen. He's after the queen._I wonder what kind of sum the Federation had presented to such an evidently accomplished assassin.

A horrible smile stretches the striped face, as if the Zabrak tells me I have no idea, and the monster reaches up with his free hand.

I glance back over my shoulder at the sound of a loud sickening crunch, and see four of the pilots writhing on the ground, their heads bent at unnatural angles. Swallowing my revulsion and fear, I return my eyes to the assassin, who meets my gaze coolly. _He's toying with me,_ I know.

Blaster fire begins to pour from the remaining pilots, who are already sick with horror. It's turned away with the crimson blade that erupts from one end of the lightsaber hilt, the bolts batted away to extinguish themselves in the sand, marking their deaths with little pits of glass. Several spats of energy, however, are returned to their owners, and a handful more of the pilots crumple to the ground, scattering the rest in a blind panic. They are pilots, after all, adapted to impersonal killing, and have never had the experience of a true battlefront. Their fear is short-lived along with the Naboo pilots themselves as the Zabrak assassin rips arteries, crushes vertebrae, and pounds hearts into silent submission with a powerful invisible hand.

It is the first time I've seen such a measure of dark power in a sentient, adding to the nauseating fright that threatens to take my reason. I fight it down, allowing it to pass through and away from me. The boarding ramp is still open, and I am the only one standing in the Zabrak's way.

He rises to his full height fluidly, taking a few steps forward, lightsaber still blazing from his grasp.

I mince to the side, the ground almost unbearably hot underneath my feet, the heat easily coming through thick calluses. I watch him carefully, see his snide expression that betrays his thoughts. What can a snot-nosed little Padawan do to stand in _his_ way? …Whoever he is. I have a feeling, though, that he hasn't come to exchange names and other pleasantries. He could be quick and ruthlessly efficient. Or he could drag this out, hazing my mind over with distracting anxiety.

Moving in a predatorial circular motion, he evidently is plotting the latter, wanting to have a bit of fun with this upstart Jedi trainee before he moves on to his real business. The problem is, I can feel his plan beginning to take effect as I misstep, twisting my ankle painfully in the loose sand.

Oh, why had Qui-Gon returned to bring back the boy now? He could have waited until tomorrow… I wince, straightening my foot before resting my weight on it again. It must have taken him longer than he wanted to sell that podracer.

I can almost hear the creature's snicker aimed at my twisted ankle. _Clumsy little Padawan._

Not only am I half-exhausted from that ill-timed kata, I instinctively know my training would never match this Zabrak's. Both my lightsaber and my Master have been misplaced; I feel thoroughly disheartened.

It's then that I draw a sharp intake of breath at the spark of familiar life that presents itself to me with deadly concern. My Master is coming, and he has sensed the disturbance.

Armed with a new confidence, I stare back at the sentient horror, who begins to advance on me. Thankfully, some genius inside the ship finally decides to close the boarding ramp, and the Zabrak slips his lightsaber away, breaking into a headlong sprint as the ramp rises from the sand. He'd been waiting for it all along—

With a few long paces, I leap at him, snaring one black-robed calf between my hands and compressing it as hard as I can, making a dead-weight of my body. My opponent's momentum is unexpectedly arrested and he falls to the ground with a brusque _thump _that might have been comedic if my situation hadn't been so dire.

He snarls terribly and rolls, flicking his leg with a powerful twitch of his muscles. I can feel them contract under my hands and his leg snaps me to the side, bringing me roughly to impact with the ground while he reaches for his lightsaber.

I spring up, ignoring the throbbing pain in my ankle for the moment. I'd successfully delayed him, and now he will never get inside the starship. The boarding ramp gives one final hiss as it closes, and the sound is echoed by a rush of air between the Zabrak's teeth. Apparently this Padawan has proven to be more trouble than he'd bargained for.

The arrival of my Master is imminent; as long as he keeps his haste, I might keep my life.

Just before I know my unknown enemy's lightsaber will ignite, I issue a time-old challenge. "Have you honor?"

The Zabrak doesn't say anything, doesn't move a muscle, only stands there, a little surprised, staring back at me.

"Have you honor?" I repeat, a bit nervously. "Then put away your weapon."

A wicked smile curves his tattooed lips, and he tosses the hilt, letting it spin off to land somewhere near his abandoned speeder.

My gamble for time has worked; I'd appealed to his warped sense of humour successfully. I can almost hear his thoughts: _So the little Padawan wants to play for time._ I know I'll be shown a new game.

I drop into a drilled-in ready stance, the one I've been using since my crèche days. I know if I live through this, it will be the stuff of legend among Padawans. The thought does little to comfort me.

The Zabrak's smile changes to one of almost startling camaraderie as he saunters closer disarmingly.

The Force flashes a warning. I whip my head to the side as an elegantly poised foot whistles through the air, the boot's edge narrowly missing my temple. Finishing the movement in a cartwheel, I land just in time to aim a roundhouse kick of my own as he regains footing.

Throughout our brief spar, the Zabrak never quits smiling. I find the expression unnerving, considering it is backed by a nefarious sense of what this creature will do to me once he's finished playing.

Master Qui-Gon must have cloaked himself; he quickly enters the game as a motivating _snap-hiss hummm_ fills the air.

The Zabrak quickly draws a short knife from his boot and I am filled with a thick upset as he snares the back of my tunic and brings the point under my chin. He has cheated.

Qui-Gon stands only a couple of meters away in a quiet rage, his emotions making themselves known throughout the living Force as the Zabrak's sense gives away a little uncertainty.

It's a trick of the wild that would often play itself out on the unwary; my Master had taught it to me long ago. Frighten a cub and come to terms with the enraged mother, who will often arrive with large sharp teeth bared and dripping. Qui-Gon's sentiments hardly differ now, even with the standoff.

I feel the knife tip dig into my skin, piercing the dermis and freeing a trickle of red blood.

Qui-Gon hides it well, but I can easily tell he is in a quandary. "What is it you want?" he growls menacingly.

"Amidala." The voice is somehow smooth and grating at the same instant, lending a horrible, oily tone.

"Drop the knife!" The command is borne through the air by a young voice, and I carefully roll my eyes to the side, dreading what I know I'll see.

Sure enough, she stands angrily at the edge of the half-lowered boarding ramp, though I'm surprised to see her dressed as one of the handmaidens.

_Now,_ I press on Qui-Gon. _Never mind me. You must do something now._

He stands rooted, knowing what he must do yet uncertain of the approach.

I glare at him, and bring up my heel like lightning.

The Zabrak grunts in pain and slashes upwards.

Qui-Gon roars wordlessly and leaps what little distance there is left to skewer the assassin, who darts away at the last moment and sprints for the boarding ramp, ignoring the pain I've caused between his legs. My Master hotly pursues him, swiping at his heels the entire distance. Again, the boarding ramp is open for one tantalising moment, then slides shut before the Zabrak can reach it.

Utterly foiled, he continues sprinting, redirecting his course by a few degrees to the deposit site of his still-intact speeder and lightsaber.

Qui-Gon comes back to me hurriedly, as I knew he would, cautiously lifting my head from the ground and cradling it before applying pressure in the way of a torn-off sleeve to the slash that stretches from larynx to right ear lobe. I'm dimly surprised that it doesn't hurt, only gives a throbbing numbness as I feel the warmth of my blood well up. From the look on his face I know it could have been worse, though my life is still in desperate jeopardy, and lies in the hands of my Master and whatever medical aid can be contrived from the starship. If I last that long.

My life continues to soak his sleeve crimson. Every movement takes an eternity to complete, every shift of my Master's hands under my head draws out into hours. So much time for thought, for memory.

But I can still see his blue eyes, full of distress. His voice cracks. "Obi-Wan?"

I manage a weak smile and a shallow sigh before my consciousness fades into free oblivion.


	2. Fidelity, Malice, and Good Friend

Every Night & every Morn

Some to Misery are Born

Every Morn & every Night

Some are Born to sweet delight

Some are Born to sweet delight

Some are Born to Endless Night

— _Excerpt from _Auguries of Innocence _by William Blake_

* * *

**Fidelity, Malice, and Good Friend**

* * *

I used to enjoy singing.

It wasn't something I did quite often, mind you, but every now and then one of my fellow senior Padawans would unearth a piece of music from the archives or the Holonet and we'd form a small group, spending a couple of afternoons in the Temple organizing ourselves into a chamber choir. The Masters deemed it as somewhat educational, besides the fact that it made for a good bit of fun for us all, and began to encourage us to perform. Some of the Padawans were rather tone-deaf, but it didn't stop them; what they lacked in musical skill they made up for with sheer enthusiasm. I landed a number of solos myself, and during a Fete Day we performed for a gathering of whoever wished to attend.

The group had made another wonderful find during my absence, and had left a message for "dear Obi-Wan" on a datapad inside my quarters, stating that they were waiting upon my return from the mission so we could begin practising.

Master Qui-Gon had found the message a few hours after I'd been admitted to the medical ward. He told me later that his eyes had blurred with tears, created by an overwhelming, sinking feeling of guilt and sorrow. I, his Padawan, who had acted as nothing more than a relatively unwitting receiver of communications at that point, had paid the awful price for the freedom of a boy.

My breath had rattled my throat those short whiles before and after the surgery to reconstruct what damage the knife had done. I was told afterward that there was absolutely nothing they could have done for my larynx. It had been rendered totally useless, they'd said, especially because the knife had had something of a serrated edge.

I'd gotten out of bed as soon as I could, once again weary of inaction and needing to walk. I wandered about several levels of the ward alone before returning to my bed. One of the halls had had a full-length mirror, and I had seen enough to convince me the healers had been right.

The glaring, puckered slash across my throat and up the side of my neck made me astonished and somewhat angry that I had managed to survive the trip back to Coruscant for proper attention. I was still a bit weak and pale from the loss of blood and knew someone was bound to upbraid me for exerting myself so soon, if they found me wandering about.

But all of that fled from my mind before the mirror, before the truth that presented its vile self to me. I stood there a very long time, staring at what I'd lost underneath the marred skin of my neck.

I collapsed back on the bed once I'd gotten back to my room, my emotions fuelled and my body sapped of strength. A surge of despair and rage reared up, along with the thought: _I shouldn't have lost my voice. I was hardly involved, simply protecting the ship while my Mas—_

No. I would not allow such thoughts to have free reign over my mind, breeding in numbers and growing a shadow within me. I had to focus on something else. Something that, while true, could help me.

I knew I wasn't going to produce immediate results or answers. I know this, and yet still search as two familiar figures walk into the small room that I will likely call my own for another week or so. One entire wall is transparisteel, allowing me to look over the city planet without being seen by others outside. This is my favorite room in the hospital ward; I've labelled it so over a few visits and usually can get a favor or two from the healers.

But the room is inconsequential at the moment; I turn my head from gazing out the window-wall to see the pair enter.

Master Yoda comes in first, of course. It's not an issue of ranking, simply that Master Qui-Gon feels somewhat uncomfortable at seemingly "barging in" upon me. Perhaps he doesn't yet realise this wasn't his fault, and that I welcome his company more than ever. So when I reach out to him through the Force, my best natural form of communication even more than before, I am flatly relieved to sense he hasn't thrown up most of his shields, hasn't put up that impenetrable fortress around his mind to hide his pain. I wonder if he suffers more than I. Pain is a thing that cannot be compared to itself; I will never know.

I attempt a smile but begin to cough, and see him stop in his tracks as the pain rips through my throat against the carefully precise work of the surgeon healers.

Master Yoda seems oblivious to all this. I know better than to think of something like that, but he wears a face of pragmatism, only in his green eyes a spark of something I cannot identify. He hobbles forward on his gimer stick, and manages to pull himself up on the bed, seating himself by my blanketed knee and giving me that piercing unshakeable gaze that has never passed over me without leaving an impression.

I'm surprised to think that I'm glad for the matter-of-fact attitude he carried into the room with him; everyone else has expressed their deepest sympathy and sorrow. The thing I detest the most about that is their actions leave me no audible way to respond. I can only put on a mask of thanks, and send a touch of gratitude to their senses. If they actually receive it, I'm never sure.

But Master Yoda settles himself comfortably on the edge of my blanket with an air of confidence, and gestures for Qui-Gon to seat himself in one of the chairs near the bed.

My Master does so woodenly. I speculate for a moment how he would've reacted had I died, but I turn my attention back to Yoda, who automatically commands so much of it.

He blinks owlishly, regarding me for a moment before speaking. "Feel unneeded, do you? Useless and stationary, hmm?"

I nod once, successfully fighting back a fresh wave of tears and indignation.

"Lies," he says, patting my knee reassuringly. "A purpose and a place you still have."

I cannot control the bursting flow of questions that flood from my agitated mind. [_Where? How? What? With whom? Will I actually accomplish anything worth accomplishing?_]

Yoda seems taken by surprise for a moment. "Clarified your thoughts in the absence of the spoken word, have you."

I glance at Qui-Gon, who looks on with a note of wonder on his features that I've come to know so well, turned saturnine by recent events. [_Do you understand me, Master?_] I try to send the inquiry as clearly as I can.

"Word for word," he murmurs. "You send thoughts like the way the blind man listens."

I remember hearing something about how, in the absence of one of the five senses, the remainders are sharpened for some measure of compensation. I suppose that is what has happened here: in my inability to speak, I am given an acute sense of communication through the Force. I think it will develop more over time as I adjust to this handicap.

"Interesting," comments Master Yoda, leaning forward a bit to peer at me closer. I feel stripped bare to the bone before that stare, and shift a bit under the blanket.

He taps my kneecap thoughtfully with one bluntly clawed finger. "A new place, you have found among us. Robbed you have been, and gifted in turn. Deliberate on the best role for you, the Council will, in your presence." He leans closer, as if confidentially, and I think I hear a note of unheard-of excitement under layers of pragmatism in his gravelly voice. "Extraordinary, is this. Communicate on such a level, only occasionally can the most gifted of masters. A purpose, you have, and determine it we must." He sits back with a quietly contemplative look upon his deeply lined face, still tapping at my knee.

[_Where is Anakin?_] I ask both of them. A dark voice urges my soul to indulge in hatred of the boy, but I wonder if I should not thank him for making the opportunity for the presentation of this new gift for me. In that, I feel a genuine link and affection toward him, limited as it might be at the moment.

"He's being taken on a brief tour of the Temple," comes my Master's hushed voice. "He said he wishes to come for a visit as soon as that's finished."

I nod slowly, feeling the stretch of the scar tugging at the skin just underneath my right ear. [_What of the Queen?_]

"Meeting with Senator Palpatine, she is." Yoda frowns. "A restlessness in her, Qui-Gon sensed."

[_She wishes to be with her people,_] I think to them. [_I suppose she'll want to return to Naboo shortly._]

Qui-Gon glances out the window. "She also expressed a wish to visit you before her departure."

[_But…_] Somehow the thought startles me. [_If she's returning, that means we haven't completed the mission yet. Are you going without me?_]

Evidently the transmission is almost too much, as the words come from my mind all at once instead of a steady linear flow as before. Qui-Gon takes a brief moment to decipher my meaning before responding sternly. "You are in no way fit to be continuing this mission."

I sit upright indignantly. My Master must have seen the telltale flash in my eyes that he's so often described before; he knows nothing but common sense will work on my nerfish stubbornness.

"A sick Padawan will do me no good on Naboo. Think, Obi-Wan. There is still a measure of danger."

I sink back and stare out the window. Perhaps I'm still somewhat weak, but I could still handle a bit of peacekeeping…though I sense Master Qui-Gon's premonition that this last stage of the mission will involve peace_making._

I still want to go. I am abhorred by the thought that while my Master may be risking his life, I will lie here, a useless lump of flesh steadily decomposing in bed.

"Hmm." The gruff voice of the tiny Master sitting by me interrupts the thoughts I had supposed were hidden to him. "Purge your despair, you must. And a healing trance you will enter as soon as your two visitors have come and gone, hmm?"

[_Yes, Master._] The thoughts of despondency are utterly driven off into the oblivion from whence they came. _Besides,_ I reason with myself, _Master Qui-Gon has come out of many dangerous situations, both paired with a Padawan and alone. He's more than able to take care of himself._ Yet I still feel that uncomfortable ache of worry deep within my chest, remaining despite my best efforts to convince myself it's unreasonable.

I seek out the bright pinpoint of light and life by my bedside, seeking what I have always known from my Master. He, in turn, releases comforting bits of reassurance, but only the amount he senses I need. We both know I must not become too dependent on things like this, that what is given to me must first be dictated by _need,_ not _want, _though occasional indulgences aren't frowned upon. My trials are close at hand, and soon I must become used to being my own Master, in a sense.

"Good, good." Master Yoda's voice intrudes once more as he clambers down from the bed, almost disappearing behind the edge for a moment before assuming his slightly hunched-over posture and making his unhurried way out of the room.

Qui-Gon does not immediately move, though, simply sits as still as one of the ancient statues in the Temple gardens a moment before rising from his chair.

I must crane my head back a little to keep my eyes on his face.

He comes closer to the bedside and reaches out with his hand, putting cool fingertips against my forehead. Perhaps he's checking for fever; perhaps he just wants to make certain I am still there. Whatever the reason, he says quietly, "You are a wiser man than I am. I foresee you will become a great Jedi Knight." Then his hand leaves my forehead, and he turns to walk out of the room.

A mystifying statement, really, coming from nowhere in particular, or so it seems. A message from the Force, perhaps? I sense this isn't the last I'll see of him before the mission, that he's leaving to bring Anakin before they must go. Still, I know he's already said his goodbye.

I move my head to look back out the window-wall, my mind numbed for a reason I do not yet know.

* * *

It is as if time rushes on and suspends itself simultaneously; I watch the various airborne vehicles race between the buildings and move painstakingly slow in the same infinitesimal point in time. Sometimes they ponderously move in a blur, sometimes they accelerate madly to a near-stop.

How paradoxical is the sapient mind and its perceptions.

So it is that eternity passes in a handful of minutes before my small visitor arrives, the door giving plenty of clearance for his head while barely admitting the top of my Master's graying crown.

"I'm sorry it took so long," Qui-Gon says. "The Council wished to have a word regarding Anakin's place in the Temple."

I feel I have waited forever. I feel I have waited five minutes. It matters not as I peer through Anakin's sun-bleached hair to the boy's bright blue eyes underneath, and attempt another smile of welcome. Thankfully, this time I do not erupt into a coughing fit.

Anakin assumes Yoda's position, seating himself nearly at the foot of the bed, swinging his legs as they are not yet long enough to reach the burnished floor. "I hope you're going to be okay," he says cautiously, obviously trying not to look at my somewhat mutilated neck. "Does it still hurt?"

[_A little,_] I send. It's a bit more difficult to reach his untrained mind, but his presence is so brilliant I have no trouble at all finding him.

His eyes widen and he sits up. "Was that you? How did you do that?"

My smile grows a bit. [_Yes, that was me—I'm talking to you through the Force._]

"Wizard," he breathes. "Will I be able to do that, too?"

"Not many can," explains Qui-Gon. "Most other Jedi can only send images and emotions. It's usually easier for us to communicate through talking, in that case."

Anakin frowns, turning back to me. "Then why don't you…" Colour rises in his cheeks as he realises.

[_That's all right,_] I quickly assuage him. [_I nearly tried to say hello when you two walked in. It might take a little while to adjust to this, is all._] I am careful to send the message word after word and not jumbled as the instance before, so as not to confuse him.

Anakin beams. "It's like I can hear your voice right in my head. It sounds just like you! Can you talk to other people like this?"

I pause for a moment. [_I can with sentients who are Force-sensitive, but that's all who I've communicated with like this so far. I don't know if it would work with anyone else._] I tug a small keypad in front of me, and as I rapidly punch in letters, the words appear on a small screen by the bed: BUT THAT'S WHAT THIS IS FOR, JUST IN CASE.

Anakin is thinking about this, I can tell. "But what if you have to talk to a person who isn't a Jedi and you don't have a keypad?"

I smile wryly. [_Then I'm in trouble. I would probably need someone who is Force-sensitive to translate for me, so to speak._]

He turns this thought over in his mind as well. "I could do that."

I exchange knowing looks with my Master. [_I don't doubt that. But it would be a rather tedious job, don't you think?_]

"It wouldn't have to be. I could go places with you and see all kinds of things. And maybe you could help teach me how to be a Jedi." His bright expression falters for a moment. "If they let me."

[_Ah… the Council. They are doing their job by being cautious._]

I sense a feeling of frustration coming from my Master, nearly the equivalent of rolling one's eyes. "Patience is indeed a virtue to be practiced, as well as insight."

This next message I send to my Master only, carefully hiding it from Anakin as I put the keypad back into place. [_Perhaps they're right. He is dangerous._]

I receive, in turn, a measure of disagreement that borders on defiance, and am surprised. I know he's always held strong opinions, but I cannot think of a point in time where he allowed me to see a measure of emotion so vehement about an opposing viewpoint. My Master is another living paradox, full to the brim with an ardent serenity. The Living Force is strong in him; it always has been.

I look from Qui-Gon's face to Anakin's. My Master's expression is solemn and determined, a hint of thrill in his midnight eyes. Anakin radiates youthful exuberance, tinted with fear and doubt. One of his legs still kicks against the bedside in a show of unharnessed, uncontrolled energy.

Anakin is one of those people who have the uncanny ability to attract others. He has a sort of innocent duende, really, an unconscious charisma. I hope dearly that he never loses it to cynicism. While there is so much room in him for generous compassion, his yet unseeded mind is a fertile breeding ground for thoughts of darkness. I know the Council has seen this in him as well, and it must have been a difficult decision to turn so much positive potential away.

The next thought I direct to both of them. [_Who will train him if the Council has a change of heart?_]

Qui-Gon hesitates, and I know. With a burst of selfish anger and dread, I know. I try to quell the emotion, but it's only a little too late; he picks up on it.

[_That's it, then._] I turn to Anakin, who begins to understand. [_Make sure he teaches you well._]

"But you aren't done yet," he blurts.

"I recommended to the Council before we began the mission that you were nearly ready for the Trials," Qui-Gon says, and I notice the slight tentative tone in him, barely there.

_He doesn't want to let me go like this,_ I realise. _But everyone knows if Anakin isn't accepted now, he never will be._

I must receive what my destiny has handed to me, and be thankful this did not happen at an earlier point in my training. [_I'll take the Trials, then, as soon as I've recovered fully._]

Anakin releases the corner of blanket he had scrunched up inside his small fist and looks to Qui-Gon, unsure of whether he'd sensed the cue to say goodbye or not. In response, my Master rises once again from the chair, and looks down at me. "Keep in touch while we're away."

[_I will._] I fully open my end of our apprenticeship bond already. [_But you must let me know if you require any backup._]

My Master smiles, just a little. "We'll see what happens. May the Force be with you, Obi-Wan."

I remember something just as Anakin hops off the bedside. [_Wait, Anakin. There's something I forgot to thank you for._]

"What?" he says curiously, coming back.

[_You took my hand just after I was carried into the ship on Tatooine._]

"You felt that?" he asks incredulously. "But it almost looked like you were…were…"

[_Dead. I know. But I wasn't, and you helped me find peace._] I take his small hand in my own and squeeze it lightly. [_Thank you._]

He grins awkwardly. "No problem."

A smile plays upon my lips as I watch the both of them leave, Anakin glancing over his shoulder and giving a small wave before disappearing around the corner.

I draw my knees up, and fold my arms over my stomach, leaning back against the piled-up pillows. A painting on the opposite wall draws my attention for the first time, and I study it with half-closed eyes, my head tilted back. I believe it is a copy of some famous work I've never seen before, but the texture of the image reminds me of a small moss painting from Alderaan I once saw, somewhat unprofessionally done but still very attractive. The picture before me, though, contains all the resplendency a truly talented artist would weave. A group of aliens I don't recognize, an insectoid species, turn to see darkness gathering in the sky before them. The colours are vivid and contrast so well, I wonder that I hadn't noticed the hanging piece before. There is a distinct yet realistic style to the painting as a whole that I vaguely seem to recognize; perhaps I will recall the name of the artist later. There is something particularly captivating about this piece, an enticing dread of the darkness, yet leaving the soul filled with a determined hope.

* * *

I'm unsure of whether time has abandoned me again as I come back to reality and hear the light, even fall of footsteps quietly echoing down the hall through the open door. It's a certain sort of _tap_ that I've never heard from a Jedi's customary boots, but the footsteps are unaccompanied. For that reason, I doubt my visitor is Queen Amidala, as she usually trails a rather large entourage.

I sit up, and see a young girl step into the room. She's dressed as one of the Queen's handmaidens ad I wonder if her Highness was too busy to come by, sending her condolences the next best way. I recognize this particular handmaiden, as she seemed to be the leader of the group, and remember her name is Padmé.

Something jogs within my memory. She comes up to my bed with an almost regal bearing and I smile an uncertain greeting. What is this annoying little prod within my mind? It activated at the sight of her, but my hazed mind cannot come up with anything at the moment. If it is important, I believe it will present itself.

She smiles back, and says a little breathlessly, "I'm sorry I had to come in just like this, but we're somewhat pressed for time and I didn't want to slow myself down with all the attention of full dress."

My eyes widen and I snare the keypad quickly. So this is what my mind was trying to tell me. I hesitate before I key in: YOUR HIGHNESS?

"Yes. How are you feeling?"

I'M SORRY—I DIDN'T REALISE. I'M FEELING ALL RIGHT.

She swallows hard. "I believe I owe you a more than profound apology."

I shake my head. YOUR HIGHNESS, IT WAS NOT YOUR FAULT. I COULD POINT THE BLAME AT ANYONE, REALLY, BUT THAT WOULD HELP ME NOTHING. I ALONE CHOSE MY FATE, AND I MUST EMBRACE IT.

She is very still for a moment. "Will this set you back on anything you had planned for?" I'm taken aback by how very young she appears just then. This Queen Amidala is a girl no more than fourteen, hardly old enough to even begin to think of adult life. I've seen many women twice as old as she with only a quarter of her maturity and wisdom. It impresses me, to say the least.

SOMEWHAT, I admit. BUT I FOUND I AM ABLE TO MENTALLY COMMUNICATE WITH OTHER FORCE-SENSITIVES.

"I thought Jedi were already able to do that."

TRUE, BUT WHERE THEY CAN SEND ONLY PICTURES, IDEAS, AND EMOTION, I CAN CLEARLY SEND SENTENCES AS WELL.

The Queen is evidently fascinated with the idea. "But does this work on anyone else?"

I shrug helplessly.

"You must find out sometime," she pointed out. "Why not now?"

The idea startles me. To try something like this on the sovereign Queen of Naboo? BUT, YOUR HIGHNESS—

"It won't hurt, right?" she interrupts. "It would make me feel much better about all this."

VERY WELL, I concede, and push the keypad aside. This could be a difficult process. First I must push away the cobwebs that have accumulated in my mind in the last little while. Then I must locate her presence, the easy step. Though not sensitive, she has a strong mind and personality and I've long known how to isolate individual minds in my attention.

I send the message with the utmost care. [_Can you hear me?_]

She does not respond, standing patiently by the bed.

I try again, having a better feel of the one-sided connection, and send the impulse a little stronger this time. [_Your Highness?_]

Her eyes suddenly dart to me. "I heard something fuzzy. Was that you?"

I nod, and send it even stronger. [_How's this?_]

Her mouth spreads into a grin. "Perfect. That's wonderful; now you can talk to anyone."

[_Perhaps. It would depend upon the openness and concentration of the individual. I sense you've cleared your mind a certain amount to let me through._] I break the connection, beginning to feel small signs of strain, and take up the keypad again. IT'S DIFFICULT FOR ME TO MAINTAIN MY CONCENTRATION, HOWEVER. I smile, and type: THANK YOU FOR YOUR WILLINGNESS.

"It was the least I could do," she tells me solemnly. "You'll be missed upon our return to Naboo."

MASTER QUI-GON IS MOST CAPABLE. I HOPE THIS WILL BE COMPLETED AS SMOOTHLY AS POSSIBLE.

"Thank you," she says reflexively. "But I have my doubts that will happen, though it will be much easier with a Jedi Master still on the team." She meets my gaze one last time, and I can see the anxiety within her brown eyes, her fear at what she'll find—and have lost—upon her return. "Take care."

I bow my head as best I can. [_May the Force be with you, your Highness._]

Queen Amidala smiles oddly at the feeling of my voice within her mind before gracefully leaving me to my solitude.

I take one last glance at the picture on the opposite wall before sinking into a healing trance and a night-realm of turmoil that seizes me shortly after.

* * *

There is a wall that I sit upon. It is excessively narrow, but extremely strong. The only thing preventing me any real pain as I straddle it is the flat ledge on top.

I look to one side, my right side, and glance down at that face of the wall. It is bright and gleaming, shining clean except for a few smudges of dirt at the bottom where the soil from the lush flower gardens reaches the wall. The stone has a dazzling effect, scattering brilliant rays of light everywhere. I look up, past the profuse gardens, to the lawns beyond, and think I catch a glimpse of playing children.

That is all the beings on the left side will allow. A cold pain erupts up from my ankle hanging down on that side, and shoots up my nerves all the way to my hip. I do not want to look down upon the dwellers of this domain, but my eyes are drawn away from the light and I cast my gaze into the darkness, wishing to pull up my leg but unable to do so.

I can make out misshapen beings moving within the hazy ebony mists that foul the air and render it nearly opaque. All the light in these lands is a dim, cheerless gray that tantalises the eye to know more of what it sees but leaves it unfulfilled.

One would expect the wall on that side to be cracked, sullied, and generally disregarded, but what I can make out speaks otherwise. A matte black corrugated metal with wicked spikes at intervals reinforces what is already there. Thankfully, my leg rests in a trough, between and well enough away from the spikes on either side. Past the metal wall, which is already a handspan thick, there is a shallow creek of water that gurgles by, looking surprisingly clean and cool. An amount of grass even grows beside it, and as I watch the misshapen forms come and drink, their skin clears up and they regain the beauty they had lost.

I wonder at the occurrence of this oasis in what seems to be an otherwise forbidding land. Does the other side not afford more comfort to the soul anyway? I glance back. There is a creek on the lit side, as well, running about twice as deep and fast, meandering through the bushes and trees. I think I catch a brief glimpse of the children splashing about—

**_No, those waters are for the foolish._**

It is the voice I have often heard in these lands, the one that refers to himself as Good Friend. He sounds much like my Master in inflections and nuances, but there is something about him I do not like.

**_Nonsense. You know I'm trying my best to help you._**

There he is, standing beside the wall, close to my suspended leg, offering up a hand. He's standing on the left side, though. The dim side.

But all that aside, Good Friend's darkly-smeared face looks amiable enough. He smiles wonderfully, his light blue eyes sparkling through the grime as he tries to stretch his hand farther. I wonder if I should take it, and look back to the lit side, where I thought I saw the children.

**_Come now._** Good Friend taps my ankle with a measure of impatience. **_Do you really wish to amount to nothing? Those children do absolutely nothing but frolic all day long. Their lives are meaningless; it's quite obvious they've been brainwashed. Won't you come over? We have so many things for you to do, to be._**

That last word catches my attention, as it was meant to. I want to _be,_ with all my heart.

Good Friend's fingers stretch out again. **_Are you going to come? Or must I wait upon someone else? There aren't that many with your talents, you know. I would suffer severely. Everything you want is here and we will give it to you with no questions asked._**

_What do you want me to do?_ I try to ask him. I cannot speak in these worlds, either; the scar still stretches across my throat.

**_To be yourself, and no one else._** He looks so benevolent.

I reach for his outstretched hand, but snap back at the last moment. _I don't want to come. I'm afraid._

_**Of course you are, **_he says reassuringly._ **Everyone is before they have to take a big step. Come on, I know you can do it.**_

I swallow, my tongue thick in my mouth, pressed up against the roof of my mouth, and tentatively reach out with my hand once again.

Something catches my eye, though, just as my hand meets that of Good Friend's. Something is floating down the creek.

I am repulsed by the sight. It strikes a blow to my spirit in an unfathomable way, and I am overcome by the sensation of horrified nausea.

It is the figure of Qui-Gon Jinn, gently being carried down the waters, a crimson hole burned through his chest.

I open my mouth in a silent scream as Good Friend grasps my hand securely and pulls me off the wall with a horrific snarl. The name seems such a tragic parody now. He wipes some of the black grease off his face as I land on the ground before him and I see a familiar red-and-black pattern revealing itself through the muck as his blue eyes blaze a fiery red.

His hands clamp down on either sides of my head and give a jerk. I hear the sickening snap of my own neck as I fall back into oblivion.

* * *

I never yell when I wake up from a nightmare. Nor do I sit up in a cold terror. My eyes simply snap wide open and stare at the ceiling for hours, and I often take off one of the two blankets I always sleep under to allow myself to cool off, for the sweat to begin to evaporate.

The lack of reaction is simply because I've had so many nightmares. All through my childhood I was plagued with them, and they slowly grew longer and darker as I grew older, rooting themselves securely within my psyche.

As I gaze up at the high ceiling I recall I've had this particular nightmare, the one about the wall and "Good Friend", several times, with slight differences between each.

This time, when Good Friend's eyes had been blue, I had recognised them as my own. That, quite possibly, made this the worst nightmare I've had yet.

_But what does it mean?_ I am disturbed by what it could mean, and I will be even more agitated if I am told it has no meaning; that would implicate I went through all these nightmares for nothing at all, not even a warning.

My eyes fix upon a point on the ceiling, riveted there. I decide I must seek a Master's counsel on this, one of the dream interpreters. They often mingle with the healers, and the most prestigious of them is a hard-headed little Chadra-Fan, named Besu Che. I will seek her out in the morning.

But for now, I have a long and sleepless night ahead of me. I dig out a small datapad lying on the night table beside my bed, and switch on a small overhead lamp, beginning to record the details of my dream.

Hopefully Master Che will have some answers.


	3. No Escape from Reality

No Escape from Reality

* * *

A blue-white ray of morning sun seeks my attention, darting into my room from a corner of the window-wall to strike my eye as it makes its brilliant arrival between the tops of two building spires.

I shut tight my eyelids, rolling off my bed, letting my bare feet strike the floor.

_Oh, cold._ I stand up despite the sensation that I'm standing on frozen carbon dioxide, and quickly mince across the floor to slip into my softboots.

Perhaps standing up was a mistake in itself. My sight is quickly dotted with elusive little green spots that effectively block out all vision as corners of blackness begin to edge in slowly from my peripheral limits, hungrily crawling in to gorge on the influxes of dawn light as my head swims dangerously. I swing my hand out wildly to try and find the wall; it makes contact and I crash myself against the solidness, sinking down to the safety of a sitting position. I have heard tell that the body is particularly vulnerable to faintness in my condition after a long period of lying prone.

I grind my teeth with frustration as the coldness of the floor begins to thread its way through my robes. This moderate loss of blood is more obstruction than real hazard to my well-being at the moment. I tug my softboots on, first right then left as I've always done, and wiggle my toes to make sure they're on snugly.

Now comes the real challenge: to stand up without passing out. The thought itself is motivationally embarrassing, and I access the Force to push a little extra blood into my brain before poising myself again. To my delight it works wonderfully, though I'm careful not to move too quickly at first.

I slip into my outer robe, pulling the cowl over my head. The last thing I want at the moment is a cluster of fussing healers milling about me, trying to distract me enough so they can shove a needle or two of anesthetic into my rear end and haul me back to bed. After all, the halls of the medical ward are always bustling in the early hours of the morning and I don't want anyone to recognise me before I reach Master Che. But to access her usual haunt, I will have to smuggle myself to a point just outside the invisible confines of the ward, which can be a difficult task, noting how most healers are incredibly (and oftentimes thankfully) observant.

I've never actually met Master Besu Che, only seen her at the end of another hallway for a brief moment before she carried on. I've heard of her shrewdness and eccentricity, and of course her ability to discern the real meaning behind a dream, but that's about all.

I move quietly into the hall, arms drawn together inside my robe's expansive flaring sleeves, assuming the posture of a member of the Order that does not wish to be disturbed. Keeping my eyes to the floor, I pass by many that don't give me a second look, thankfully.

My passing is not to remain undisturbed, however. It's all very sudden; at first, the floor in front of me is clear, then out of nowhere a young Chadra-Fan appears. I very nearly trip over her.

"What would you like?" she squeaks. I'd seen her around before, and had heard she was one of the healers-in-training, a close acquaintance with the one I seek.

[_To see Master Che,_] I send, sensing her connection to the Force is wide open.

She pauses for a moment, then nods, turning around. "Come."

Master Che's room isn't far away, soon pointed out to me. I nod my thanks under my hood to my Chadra-Fan guide, who bows quickly and scurries on her way.

_I hope I'm not disturbing anything,_ I think to myself as I hesitantly press on the door panel, unsure of what to expect.

Whatever I had been anticipating, this isn't it. Even as the door shoots open and I begin to step inside, a small form hurtles forward at me, catching me completely by surprise as I stiffen in shock. The impact is fairly hard and I stumble back a step and grab the doorframe on either side of me as small claws dig into my robes, nearly piercing the skin at my shoulders. I find myself face-to-face with a set of inquisitive rodent features, dark liquid eyes studying what they can at this range (which is probably limited to my own eyes and nothing more).

Master Besu Che's mouth splits in a wide grin. "Will you keep acting as door for rest of exercise?"

I shake my head emphatically as my hood slips the rest of the way off, landing on my upper back.

She laughs, a staccato chirping sound, and gives a mighty push, jumping backwards off of me to land on the floor. Master Che is surprisingly energetic for a creature of her obvious years, about half of her dark brown fur turned a silvery gray. "Yes, yes. What you here for, little Padawan? Dream, or breakfast?"

My mouth begins to water at the smells coming from an adjacent room, and I am thankful I'm allowed to eat real food already, as my esophagus was unharmed. [_Perhaps both, Master._]

She grins again, and peers up at me. "You the boy they just brought in from Tatooine? What your name?"

I nod. [_Obi-Wan Kenobi._]

"Very nice, very nice. Force-words rare, but I am sure you know. Lovely, lovely. Have some fried trollock, then we see about dream. Yes?"

I smile with a little uncertainty, and wonder, _What's trollock? Whatever it is, it smells marvellous._

Small Master Che leads me across the room, carpeted with training mats, to the little kitchen with Chadra-Fan sized accessories. She snares a plate off the counter and lightly tosses it to me. I wonder at the occurrence of airborne objects in this room as I manage to catch it, keeping it from slipping between my fingers and shattering on the floor, as it seems a rather delicate piece of ceramic.

"_Lai, lai, bienen-douh._ Is done." She flips the flat browned bread-like objects over in the pan with a handy utensil, and looks up at me.

Taking the hint, I bend down, lowering the plate. No sooner am I at her level than she whips her spatula under one of the trollock, bringing it up in an arc to smack down onto my plate, steaming under my nose. I back out of the kitchen as she fills her own plate.

"Lovely, lovely." She looks at me critically, and gestures for me to sit down on one of the mats. "Tell if trollock is good to you."

I work myself down into a cross-legged position, Master Che sitting close by. The trollock is tempting and I break off a piece, studying it before popping it into my mouth. There is meat inside the bread, and an assortment of unrecognisable vegetables. Some spice lends a potent flavour, almost making me cough as I swallow. [_It's very good._] And I mean that; the rest disappears in short order as I discover the warming and filling properties of a good bit of trollock.

"Way my sire-mother made. Good thing for you it passed down, yes?"

I nod appreciatively. [_Do I want to know what kind of meat that was?_]

Master Che considers. "Hmm… no. Human stomach grows queasy quickly. Face turns funny green. Very amusing, very amusing. So. You come about dream, little Kenobi?"

[_A recurring nightmare, actually._]

"Oh! Why you not come earlier?"

Why not, indeed. [_I suppose I hadn't thought of it, Master._] It sounds a bad excuse to me, but she seems to overlook it.

She shifts her position until she sits directly in front of me, also cross-legged, and looks up, studying me once again. "Now. You must do exercise for Master Che. Tell me all Aurebesh letters, starting _aurek_."

I raise an eyebrow but comply, unsure of what this will do for me. I've intimately known this series of Basic characters since I was in the crèche, as have all the other younglings that pass through and indeed every sentient that is schooled in Basic. If this is a memory exercise, it creates no challenges. [_Aurek, besh, cresh, dorn…_]

"Good. Calm mind."

[_…esk, forn, grek, herf, isk, jenth, krill, leth, mern, nern, osk, peth…_]

"Keep clear mind. Lovely, lovely."

[_…qek, resh, senth, trill, usk, vev, wesk, xesh, yirt, zerek, cherek…_]

"Almost finished. Keep going, little Padawan."

[_…enth, krenth, nen, orenth, shen, thesh, onith._] I straighten my posture and look down at her, furrowing my brow. [_What was that for, Master?_]

"Test of patience," she said, with a reproving tone.

[_Did I pass?_]

"No. Almost. Again. This time, backwards."

I repeat the entire series of characters to her a second time in reverse, driving uncertainty and impatience from my mind.

"Good, good," she says at long last. "Now. You show me dream. Feed it through Force connection. Ready?"

I hesitate. I do not wish to run the images and feelings before my mind _again._ I had anticipated merely relating the events of the dream to her.

"Courage, little Obi-Wan. I not want complete lack of fear. Almost impossible, and truly impossible for one without much experience. I want courage. Go despite fear, Padawan. It not hurt you if you not let it. Go."

I take a deep breath, shutting my eyes and opening fully the connection, retrieving the dream from the recesses of my memory where I'd stored it, hoping to let it accumulate dust and rot to nothing after I had finished telling it to Master Che. But that is not what she wants; Besu Che wants the dream itself. Perhaps she can make a more accurate interpretation if she experiences the real thing.

The dream steadily flows through the link in every detail. It is a series of visions that have permanently branded themselves into my mind, stamping every detail of its existence into a vile pattern on my brain.

Master Che stays calm and steady as a rock through the entire thing. I sense she's been fed much worse before this, and the thought does nothing to calm me; rather the opposite. Now I know for certain my dreams have the potential to grow worse.

"Reality harsh. Life unfair. Everyone learns, sooner or later. Keep dream flowing."

Perhaps the connection is more open and two-way than I thought. I keep the nightmare coming through, bit by appalling bit. The process is finished sooner than I felt it would, and I open my eyes to see Master Che's face scrunched up in thought.

"Few questions. This Good Friend, with changing eyes and red-black face. You seen him before in reality, yes?"

I nod and point silently to the scar that makes its glaring line from throat to ear.

"Ahh. Explains. Another question: you had dream when going into healing trance. Rare thing, to have in trance. Did it seize you just before you entered trance?"

I frown. [_I'm not sure. It happened very quickly._]

"Not nightmare, then. Vision."

[_A vision? Of what?_]

"Future," she replies simply. "This Good Friend not good. Bad. Bad Friend will make the seen hole in your Master."

My heart sinks in horror. [_Can I not stop this?_]

"Possible. But unlikely. Could be destiny. Event could lead to better things." She jabs a small furred finger at me. "Never truly know. Some bad things make good, some good things make bad, later on. But no doubt about Bad Friend. You have seen him before, and maybe see him later. Everything else in dream, about light and dark. You know enough about these sides already, or would not be senior Padawan. Main thing in dream is Bad Friend, and what he wants to do."

[_Will this thing happen soon?_] I ask anxiously.

Master Che scrunches her face up again. "Uncertain. Why you ask? Is Master gone?"

My heart steadily plunges lower into a pit of seething despair. [_He's left to complete a mission on Naboo._]

"Ohh. Padawan, I think you miss significance of something in your dream."

[_What?_]

"The water. On good side, flows away from your perspective, and begins curving toward wall just before out of sight. On bad side, flows toward, and curves into bad lands from wall just out of sight. Connected. Stream makes a turn, through wall far away. I also see flowers and trees on good side are native species to Naboo. I study some botany, know these plants." She frowns. "Stream leads from Naboo to bad side, carrying dead Master. If happens, will happen on Naboo."

[_I have to do something, Master,_] I tell her in desperation.

"Really?" she asks. "And what will be consequences if you do? Think, think. Yoda teaches: always in motion, is future. You preserve his life, change course of future. Others may die as result. Prepared to deal with that? Prepared to destroy destiny?"

[_I can't let him die._]

Besu Che snorts sceptically. "Your choice, little Obi-Wan. But do something for Master Che."

[_What?_]

"Think before you do, and know in your heart what must happen. Not what you _want_, but what _must_ be. You know importance of this. Do this for Master Che."

I slouch down, staring dejectedly at the point where one of my calves crosses over the other, each shin bone crossing under the opposite knee. [_Yes, Master._]

* * *

All the long way back to my hospital bed, through the halls, my head hidden underneath my robe's cowl I tread.

What I _must_ do.

_But what?_ I wonder to myself. _What must I do? Must I wait here, and let Master Qui-Gon face the Zabrak and die? Or must I go to Naboo and spare his life?_

It is a terrible decision, weighing down upon me as the entire Temple would if it were crumbled into a pile of ferrocrete and duracrete, and piled upon my chest and shoulders. The thought of others dying if I save him makes little sense to my torn mind. Would we, together, not be able to save more people than me alone? Besides which, the Zabrak in that case would no longer be running free to cause havoc as he would. By saving the life of Qui-Gon Jinn, it only makes sense that I would be able to save more.

I ponder the wisdom of bringing this question to Master Yoda. It is likely he would only give me the same answer, to do what I _must._ He would also likely provide his opinion, and somehow I know all too well what that opinion would be, sadly as he would deliver it.

_They will tell me to leave him,_ I know, and I decide for myself what I must do. _I'd better see if there are any spare spacecraft in the docking bays. Perhaps I'm being a stupid Padawan… but I don't care._ I don't care. I mustn't.

I carefully gather my presence into pseudo-slumber mode, which I've put into practice on a few occasions. Any Jedi that will try to contact me through the Force, including my own Master, will immediately assume I am fast asleep or in a trance of some sort. I believe it could be crucial to my Master's survival that he encounter no distractions on my part before I arrive on the very scene. And when I do, I will tell him of the prediction, and he will understand my concern when the tattooed Zabrak comes.

I will be there.

* * *

"There is a time for everything,

a season for every activity under heaven.

A time to be born and a time to die.

A time to plant and a time to harvest.

A time to kill and a time to heal.

A time to tear down and a time to rebuild.

A time to cry and a time to laugh.

A time to grieve and a time to dance.

A time to scatter stones and a time to gather stones.

A time to embrace and a time to turn away.

A time to search and a time to lose.

A time to keep and a time to throw away.

A time to tear and a time to mend.

A time to be quiet and a time to speak up.

A time to love and a time to hate.

A time for war and a time for peace."

— Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

* * *

I rise from the quieting embrace of a true healing trance. This one has thankfully passed with no disturbances from Bad Friend, as Master Che labelled him. I had made it upon myself that I should wake upon the alarm that signals the return from hyperspace; sure enough, the proximity light is flashing and I key in a sequence. The dazzling patterns of hyperspace wash over my view once more, then are swept away by the restoration of the cold pinpoints of light, billions of stars freckling the dust-swept vacuum. And there is the planet itself, Naboo, suspended like the stars, beautiful in its blue-green land and streaks of white clouds, an immense marble.

But the Trade Federation blockade demands my attention at the moment. The sensors of the old but prime condition Headhunter I was able to procure from the Temple docking bays indicate I have been noticed, and I cruise in steadily, coming close to one of the starships so as to limit myself as a target to most of its guns.

I begin to weave erratically in evasive movements, well avoiding most of the red fire that the gunning stations spit out toward me. There are several close misses, though; one of the laser bolts brushes against my portside, leaving a nasty-looking black streak of carbon scoring. I gun the engines, ignoring a frantic whistle from the onboard navigation droid.

_Random. Unexpected._ I dive toward one of the guns, whizzing past it too fast for its sensors to track me, and curve into a brief spin before levelling off. I've made it through the blockade; now I'm too far out of range for the starship guns.

The navicomputer has already made a scan for the capital city Theed, where I know my Master has gone with the Queen. I keep up the pretence of sleep, careful to keep my senses to myself. If I should send out a probing touch to the city, Qui-Gon will know and wonder.

_He cannot afford the distraction,_ I convince myself, the Headhunter punching through the atmosphere. Flames engulf my view for a moment as I head into a near-drop, then my sights clear up as I keep diving down through the air of this most beautiful and now deadly planet.

I am soon skimming meters above the canopy of a lush forest, the traditional structures of Theed looming within view halfway between me and the horizon. I can recall in detail where the main docking bays are situated, on the northern side of the city. It's close to one of the principal waterfalls that stream from a source unknown to me, as mysterious and benevolent as the spirit of Theed itself. The city does seem to have an individual essence, a vitality its people draw from, though it is no doubt fed by them as well. Theed and its population are as symbiotic as a Jedi and her midichlorians, unable to survive in their present form unless tightly knitted together. I think it is the thought of that separation, perhaps, that Queen Amidala is so afraid of, so unwilling to accept and watch happen.

I grit my teeth. One of the Federation's tanks has been stationed by the docking bays, and has sighted me. How I do detest playing tag with laser fire, though I am given little choice when the situation arises in the interest of preserving my life.

I manage to keep myself and the Headhunter from harm, however, and skim in closer to the yawning mouth of the docking bay and the relative shadows inside, the well-lit bays still contrasting with Naboo's brilliant sun.

It feels as if my heart stops as I ease the starfighter in. I expected something to be happening, some kind of fighting or at least desperate negotiations, but nothing like this.

Before my very eyes, three staffs of light spiral in close proximity to each other, landing and parrying blows. Two red, one green. Locked in deadly combat, the pair of humanoid forms pay almost no attention at my arrival, engrossed in anticipation, instinct, and especially survival.

_MASTER!_ I contain the thought just as it is about to escape. Now, of all times, I must afford him no distraction. My mind races frantically as I watch them duel, the Zabrak beginning to gain an advantage over Qui-Gon.

_I must do something quickly…_ I finger the lightsaber clipped to my belt, wondering if I could get there in time. And even if I did, how long would I be able to help my Master before the strenuous activity drained me of strength? My mind riffles desperately through scenarios, through possibilities.

And then I see it. At a wonderful combination of parries and thrusts on the part of my Master, the Zabrak is forced to break away for a moment, cartwheeling off and no doubt planning a speedy retaliation.

Time seems to mercifully slow down for me, the Zabrak's hand gradually smacking against the smooth floor of the docking bay, his body ponderously turning upside-down as momentum seems to consider letting him carry through with the movement. I am easily able to locate my weapons station, activating the guns, lowering the level down to stutterfire so as not to scorch my Master in a wave of heat, as any higher setting would likely vaporise both him and the incarnation of Bad Friend. Locking on to the Zabrak's position, I and the onboard systems track him until he is halfway through the cartwheel.

Then I squeeze the trigger.


	4. The Irrevocable Grip

He who Doubts from what he sees

Will neer Believe do what you Please

If the Sun & Moon should Doubt

Theyd immediately Go out

To be in a Passion you Good may do

But no Good if a Passion is in you

-_Excerpt from _Auguries of Innocence _by William Blake_

* * *

The Irrevocable Grip

* * *

I feel the Force flowing, erupting, constantly changing to remain the same. Feared, revered, controlled but never truly harnessed. It creates… and it destroys. It never stops, and how it moves in me and through me is my decision entirely.

I might have made the right move, but I made the wrong decision.

My hatred reaches the Zabrak before the bolts do. Time remains just slow enough for me to see his wide red eyes lock onto me in surprise and recognition before the bolts strike, making his body literally explode.

I close my eyes, shut them tight against the horror before me that has been _made_ by me. I don't have to look to know that the Zabrak has fallen onto the floor in what pieces are left of him.

The ship. I still have to guide the Headhunter into a safe landing… I wrap my quaking hands around the controls, managing to keep the fighter steady until I can glide it to the side of the bay, to a stop. I sit back and punch the control for the cockpit window to slide open. My eyes close again and breathing is painful, my throat thick and dry as the desert sands, and where there might have been a cut-off voice tremor as I inhale shakily, there is only the sound of my breath rattling my silenced throat.

But there is also the sound of running footsteps. I cannot bear to open my eyes, to look into the face of the man whose life I have saved.

"Obi-Wan." His voice is quiet but firm, and surprised. Admonishing, questioning.

[_It would have been better for me to have never known._] My thought leaves me as a veritable whisper, striking him hard though he knows not why.

"Come out of the cockpit, Padawan."

I comply gladly. Perhaps, if I am lucky, he will beat some sense into my foolish head. I shimmy myself over the cockpit's lip and drop down onto the floor. I stumble upon my landing, though, forgetting through the haze of my afflicted confusion to reinforce my brain's blood supply. The volatile green spots cluster in again, taunting me, blocking my vision, and I sway dangerously, teetering on the edge of balance and consciousness.

His hands brace my shoulders. "Sit."

The floor rises under me suddenly, my legs bending in compliance, and I find myself sitting on the floor, dazed and confused. Sorrowful and lonely.

"Obi-Wan. Look at me." There is a worried undertone in my Master's voice, and I raise my eyes to try and give him a measure of solace.

I don't think it ever reached him, though. He looks awful. His hair is dishevelled and sweat-darkened near his forehead. A nasty-looking bruise along his cheekbone is already a dark purple, threatening to swell. His eyes seem to have darkened, the shadow of his brow more pronounced than I remember. Perhaps it's the lighting. Perhaps it's just me.

"What did you know?" He isn't curious, but I know he senses some significance behind my last statement, and in a very Qui-Gon Jinn-like manner, decides it's in our best interests that he knows about it.

I let my eyes roll back, closing my lids again. [_I had a dream. A nightmare, a vision. You died._] I try desperately to swallow, but my throat is too parched and I must endure the feeling until I can get some water to open the back of my mouth. [_I had it several times, but only in the last one, the one I had just after you left for Naboo, did I see you. Dead. And I saw the Zabrak, too. I went to Master Che, and she told me what was going to happen, that the Zabrak would kill you. I couldn't stay, I had to come here and…_] I sigh heavily, my breath staggering. [_I'm sorry._]

"Sorry for saving my life?"

I open my eyes, and look to his face. There is none of the grimness I expected, no stern glance reserved for a certain Padawan. Instead, he is genuine to me, reaching out and placing a wearied hand upon my shoulder. It is heavy with his exhaustion and I am grateful for that; the weight seems to anchor me down, keeping me from drifting away in the turbulent crosscurrents of my misery.

But then I remember what I am sorry for. [_I felt the dark side._]

"Of course you did." That's my Master, assuming one thing when I mean another, too light-headed with seeming victory to take a second look. "The Zabrak was a cunning user of—"

[_No. That's not what I meant._] I draw another shuddering breath from a failing well. [_I felt the dark side in _me_._]

He is silent, for a long time.

It is odd, how I noticed the dark side altered my perceptions. When the Zabrak died, it felt like the first time I had ever seen a sentient killed before my eyes. I have seen violent deaths before, and killed beings myself, but none of that really matters anymore. I keep remembering the look on his face just before my stutterfire hit him. He was snarling, yes, and surprised. But the thing that strikes me as the image passes before my mind's eye is the look behind those eyes. The look of a soul emerging from behind a dark curtain for the first time in decades, both brought out and destroyed by the killing blow.

His life is gone; it has fled and dissipated into the winds. Where it will be carried, I do not know.

All my life-long career as a Jedi apprentice has not prepared me for this violent and unwelcome revelation. Never again will I touch the Force untainted. Never again will I have in my possession a pure perspective. Never will I reach out with my senses without being reminded of the time I slipped, the time I failed myself and my Master, the time I killed in a dark passion of revenge.

I struggle to stand, lifting my Master's hand from my shoulder and pushing myself up with tired legs. [_Perhaps I should leave, now. I can't serve the Order in the same way anymore._]

"You will stay right where you are, Padawan." Qui-Gon stands as well, taking a step closer and looking down, directly at me. "Do you think all Jedi are without flaw? Do you think a sentient must attain perfection to even consider joining the Order as a Knight or Master? Yoda himself is not without his flaws, not without the mistakes of his past." My Master wears a benign smile, the expression I've waited to see for what seems so long. "You will never completely erase the memory, Padawan, but you have the capability to far outweigh it with other deeds, with staying in the light. It is the only thing we can do."

The sensation of relief floods through me, seeming almost out of place but nonetheless welcome. [_Why ever did I think you wouldn't understand?_]

"Because you're a young fool," he tells me affectionately.

I am quickly gathered into a warm embrace, which I return to him. When was the last time he was this open to me? When was the last time I felt so much love from the man who is my father in all but name?

I feel no need to answer myself; the question no longer matters. It means nothing. The last time is now and there is no need to challenge it with an old and dust-covered memory. I truly am living in the present moment; Qui-Gon knows this and I feel his pride. This moment is one of doubt and fear, but also the unconditional stability of a true connection with another, something strong enough for both of us to draw from. The failing well has been replenished.

Moments of peace such as these are never meant to last, though. It's already been a few minutes, too long in my Master's opinion. He draws back and I see a fresh steel in his leonine features.

"The original plan to recapture Naboo is still underway. The Queen may need some assistance, so I wish to catch up with her party. You must remain here and watch the bay."

I experience a twinge of resentment. [_You aren't stationing me, Master. You're keeping me from action._]

"You are still in the healing process, Padawan. I am ordering you to remain here until I am finished."

I abruptly grip his arm. [_But what if something happens and my dream is made real by some other means?_]

"I told you once and I will say again: an ill Padawan will do me no good! You need to rest yourself. Now get back into the Headhunter and await the return of the pilots. They're carrying out an attack on the droid control ship."

I suddenly remember something. [_You took Anakin with you. Where is he?_]

A flash of guilt-tinted surprise crosses my Master's features, one so faint that only I and a few close others would have been able to detect it. "I told him to stay in the cockpit of the starfighter over…" His eyes trail to one side of the bay. I follow his gaze, and we both lock onto an empty dock.

"Oh, Sith." The curse is little more than a whisper.

[_He went into battle?_] So much for the destiny of the Chosen One. There is little use of entertaining visions of him surviving a space battle. Anakin is a mere nine years old; I doubt he could have attained much experience in the art of dogfighting, no matter how much of an exceptional pilot he might be at this tender age.

Qui-Gon's eyes lose focus for a moment, then come back to his surroundings, namely me. "He's all right, so far. Frightened, though not as much as he would be if he truly knew what he's getting himself into." He claps me on the shoulder in a somewhat apprehensive gesture. "All we can do is hope. I must look after the Queen."

[_May the Force be with you, Master._] A small measure of worry for him seeps back into my senses.

"It's with us, Padawan." He pauses for a second, meeting my eyes in a fleeting glance before lifting his hand from my shoulder and jogging away in a lope he's made very characteristic of himself, one he'll use only when he determines there is an utmost need for it. I believe I have detected some embarrassment from him at the use of it, but my Master would not be one to admit that without a fair amount of coaxing from a trusted one, or an even fairer amount of alcohol, the like of which I've rarely seen him drink in remarkable quantities anyway.

I return to the Headhunter's cockpit, feeling almost defeated. How I chafe under the sensation of uselessness. I hope it will not take too long before my full strength has returned to me. Its lack is made very evident, at any rate, by my efforts to pull myself up into the pilot's seat. I shouldn't have had to tap into the Force to complete the move, ordinarily. The thought of even temporarily abstaining from kata exercises is enough to make me suffer a withdrawal of sorts. I emit a small mental groan to myself as I rest my head against the back, thankful the designers had had the good graces to make a comfortable seat at least.

I stretch myself out into the bond to my Master, as well as the Force that surrounds me. Tentatively, though curiously, I reach a small tendril to the spot where the Zabrak had died.

I am irretrievably seized once again by the cold and clammy iron grip of vice and terror.

**_It doesn't take long, does it?_**

With a feeling that could only be ascribed as pure terror, I try to pull away but my conscious self is trapped within a containing cell created by those very hands of iniquities.

The voice of Good Friend is amused. **_You didn't think I could visit you during the day, did you? You know much but see little, foolish Padawan._**

I cannot believe my idiocy. In reaching out to the place the Zabrak died, I have given his spirit an opportunity to gain a foothold when, untouched, it might have simply dissipated. I clench my teeth and fists, and strive madly to drive him away, to wash my mind of his foul presence.

**_It won't be so easy. I'm already familiar with your roving mind, with your selfless outlook. You were making sure I was really and truly gone, that there was nothing left of me to hurt your poor, unsuspecting Master._**

I make a conscious effort to relax my fists, else my fingernails might have pierced the skin of my palms. [_Then why do you torment me?_]

**_Simple._** I can feel the awful grin that wreaths his presence. **_You're so worried about everyone else, you're blind to yourself in the ways that truly matter._**

[_Wrong._] If it had been a physical hold, I would have twisted in his grasp, writhed in his hold, seeking escape. [_I find fulfillment enough in those things._]

**_Are you sure?_**

I pause for one long and dreadful moment while he falls silent. Of course I'm sure. Am I not? Why shouldn't I be sure?

The defiance falters as I begin to wonder. What did he mean, when he asked me of the things that truly matter? _I thought it was in the things I gave… but I am right in that. He's planting seeds of doubt._

I smile grimly. Seeds that will not survive to bear fruit, seeds that will wither and die before they take root under the proper amount of duress I will dole out to them. Jedi specialise in that sort of destruction, and I have been equipped to manage it.

_But will it be enough?_ The question pervades my mind, despite my best efforts to discard it.

Good Friend has occupied much time, I know, as I see the glint of yellow starfighters when I look outside, above the lush landscape that continues from the drastic fall of the cliff upon which the docking bays are situated. The warriors return home. To what, I know not, but judging by the fair ratio of remaining starfighters to empty docks, I suppose they have been successful in their endeavours.

I only hope young Anakin is still among the living. I stretch out, ignoring the battle within my own mind, to find the bright presence, and to my relief it is there, a strobing brilliance that resonates throughout the Force.

I watch the starfighters enter, one by carbon-scored one, the rest of the hull shining that gleaming yellow. The third last one comes into view, and I see inside the head of a small boy dwarfed inside a helmet that was never made for him, rather than the shoulders and head of the adults that piloted the other fighters. I will not deny my heart sings in the release of my anxiety.

I slip out of the cockpit again, feeling aged and stiff. This time when I land upon the floor I am careful to reinforce my brain's blood supply, and the dizzy feeling thankfully does not reappear.

Anakin's fighter docks hesitantly, and I see him finish the procedure more slowly than the other experienced pilots. Still, I sense his mind buzzing with heady excitement, and I can imagine why. A pity that he can no longer share his experiences with his friends back on Tatooine; I sense he knows this as a slight pang interferes with his ecstasy.

He bounds down the ladder, skipping the last three rungs and shoving himself off to land on the floor, knees bending to absorb the shock for a moment before he spots me, and comes running.

I smile as he skids to a stop just before colliding with me. "I thought you were back with the Jedi."

[_It's a long enough story._] I bend down to his eye level and look at him with something approaching strictness, though I hardly feel I should take on a mentoring role with this boy after only knowing him for a day or so. [_What were you doing up in battle?_]

"Master Qui-Gon told me to stay in the cockpit," he says with a measure of childish exasperation. "I saw some destroyer droids coming and shooting at the Queen, and so I tried to shoot back, but I didn't know which button was the right one, and I think I set up automatic pilot. I _did_ get the droids, though," he adds with a bright grin. "I blasted 'em to pieces."

I feel my throat engaging in a silent chuckle as I return the grin. [_You'd better be a little more careful from now on. You could have been killed._]

"I know. It was really scary at first. But then I got Artoo to take us off automatic pilot, and I did okay until I got hit. Just a little," he says, trying to placate me. "It wasn't really bad, but I somehow got inside the big starship and overheated 'cause of the hit. I had to wait on the floor, and all these droids were coming up, so I took the guns and I blasted some of them, too. Then I found a different button on the gun controls…" He frowns. "It made a blue shot, and I missed the droid I was trying to hit. It got the big starship, instead. I think I mighta hit a power source, because the ship started to blow up inside. I got out in time, though." He grins again, the feeling of exhilaration resounding through the Force. "It was great! I never wanna do it again, but it was great!"

I cast my eyes to the ceiling for a moment, wondering how I should respond. [_I think it would be perfectly all right if you never _did_ do that again. Okay?_]

"Okay," he sighs. "I'll try not to. Where's Master Qui-Gon?"

[_He's escorting the Queen, I believe. I would be too, but I was told to wait here because I'm not quite healthy as of yet._]

"Well, I'm glad you're here," Anakin says with yet another of his grins.

I look past him then, and see the pilots standing in a group, by their gestures discussing something interesting. I tap into the Force, enhancing the sound waves that reach my ears to a volume loud enough that I can make out their words.

"He flew into the hold, behind the deflector shield and blasted the main reactor…" The pilot shakes his head.

"Amazing," says another, one whose face is hidden from me. "They don't teach that in the academy."

"We're all accounted for," comments the leader, whom I recognize as the captain of the Queen's ship that took us to Tatooine. "Who flew that ship?"

I bring my focus back to Anakin. [_They're wondering what happened. Perhaps you should go enlighten them._]

His face takes on a slight reddish tint. "But… what if they don't like it? What if I get in trouble?"

[_You're not going to get into any more trouble than you're in already._] I give him a reassuring smile. [_I'll go with you, how's that?_]

"Okay, I guess." Nonplussed, he turns to face the group as I rise to my full height.

The movement catches the eyes of a couple of pilots, and by their puzzled expressions I know they hadn't noticed Anakin emerging from the starfighter while they were busied looking after their own craft.

I dig my fingers into the small pouch on my belt as we approach, sensing I might need the tiny datapad that is standard issue to most Jedi, used mainly for storing information points on the field. It will serve me fine in this circumstance, however.

"What can we do for you?" Captain Olie asks Anakin once we come up, not unkindly.

Anakin swallows hard. "Uhh. I think you were wondering who blew up the starship."

The group of pilots look to me, perplexed.

I touch Anakin's shoulder encouragingly. [_Don't worry about what they'll think. You have done Naboo a great favour._]

He straightens his posture, however tentatively. "I did it."

The reaction is priceless. Several of the pilots' mouths open in surprise, while a few others try in vain to hide their smiles. Captain Olie, with a grin that could rival Anakin's, bends down to shake the lad's hand. "Congratulations, son. Naboo owes you a big favour."

Anakin looks up at me with a smile at the man's words.

I shrug. [_Didn't I tell you?_]

"Too bad he's a minor," comments one of the smaller pilots. "I've got some good vintage wine at my place."

Olie looks to me again. "Don't tell me you weren't there with him."

I type quickly on the datapad. ACTUALLY, I WASN'T. BUT IT SEEMS HE IS, TO SOME EXTENT, CAPABLE OF TAKING CARE OF HIMSELF. I hand the message to the somewhat embarrassed-looking pilot, who reads it quickly.

He gives it back to me with a sheepish smile that quickly fades. "Weren't you supposed to be staying on Coruscant?"

I nod, keeping up the expression of reassurance to a mild extent.

"What are you doing back here? You don't exactly look the definition of health, if you don't mind me saying."

I brush Anakin's mind again, hoping to use the datapad for a communication device as little as possible. [_Tell him I had some unfinished business to clear up._]

Anakin immediately assumes the role of translator. "He says he had some unfinished business to clear up."

Several of the pilots exchange glances, and I can see their doubts about the truth behind Anakin's words. However, I feel no urging to explain the process to them; the boy's word will have to do for now.

Olie glances behind us to the array of unrecognisably charred Zabrak scattered on the otherwise spotless floor. "Such as that mess over there?"

I give him a half-hearted smile, not wanting to turn and look upon my object of destruction, and slip another message to Anakin.

"He says—"

Then I flinch under a mental impulse, shoving my heel against the floor in the start of a wild acceleration toward the hall that joins the docking bays with the other populated areas of the palace, the one I know my Master disappeared down. Something is wrong, and the threat upon Qui-Gon's life is renewed in my mind. I receive a scatter of images from our bond, thoughts of battle droids, decoys, and… _Nute Gunray?_ Their proximity to the Viceroy puts an added edge to my speed, rather than stopping me in my tracks. I draw upon the Force, barely putting forth enough human effort to walk as the invisible power surges me forward to a dead end.

I look about the deserted section of corridor desperately, and see the body of a fallen soldier. There is little time; I call the rifle that once fit in his hand to me, and check it over quickly. Sure enough, the small nub of the end of an ascension string protrudes from the weapon. It's easy enough to figure out where the Queen and her entourage have gone; shards of window lie all over the floor and I am grateful for my boots as I rush to the shattered opening, balancing on the stone sill and looking upward. It's difficult to see, but one of the windows on the floors above me has a spot that looks darker, and I imagine that was their re-entry point. I aim and squeeze the trigger, fastening my hands around the rifle securely. It gives a small jerk just after the nub affixes itself, and the weapon reels its string in speedily enough as I try not to look down. In my haste, I spring through the broken window as soon as I arrive, leaving the rifle hanging where it is, and unhook my lightsaber from my belt, fingering its comforting weight as I take half a second to get my bearings. Blood is surging through my system, effectively reducing my former dizziness as I race off in the direction of my Master's presence, hoping desperately I have not been too slow to interfere with one particular twist of fate that contains my dread.

Then I see him, at the head of the party, blocking enemy fire and protecting the Queen while keeping up the pretence that she is merely a handmaiden, as her dress still states. They move at a brisk trot; I know I'll catch up with them promptly if I keep my rapid pace.

My plan backfires considerably. I manage to rush headlong into a group of four battle droids emerging at a corner. I ignite my lightsaber immediately, swinging it up to bat away the first few blaster bolts. The sound inexorably carries itself down the hall to reach my Master's ears. Whether it sounded like sweet music or a striking horror to him, I will never know.

I see him turn; he knew I had been following but he had not expected me to catch up so quickly. I mow down the last battle droid before bringing my focus back to bear on him and the Queen.

That's when I see the four droidekas roll up, hemming the group in on all sides, except for my Master, who is a pace ahead, so very close to the throne room. The massive door slams down, trapping the group in the hall while Master Qui-Gon seeks a way out from his position just in front of the throne room door. And I… I am almost helpless to intervene, still too far away to reach the group to make a difference if the droidekas open fire.

As time mercilessly pauses, I catch my Master's shadowed eyes over the group, whom the Queen has ordered to lay their weapons down under the droideka threat. The destroyer droids' arms seem to swing ponderously back and forth, covering the group.

[_Padawan._] I am shocked to realise Qui-Gon is sending his thoughts to me; whether they are made clear by my new abilities or his own focus, I can't be sure. [_Padawan… you know what must be done._] He drops into a defensive stance, ready for action.

And then I see I have been later in noticing what he has seen for a few bare moments already. The two droidekas closest to him had already swung their weaponry to bear on his lone form before he had dropped into a ready position. He is pinned against the door; I know that even one destroyer droid is a match for any two Jedi, but he still accepts the challenge as a warrior when they open fire.

My mouth opens in a silent scream as irony, cruelty, and destiny sink their teeth deep into the falling body of my Master.


	5. Visions of Escape

Visions of Escape

* * *

There is a tide in the affairs of men

Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;

Omitted, all the voyage of their life

Is bound in shallows and in miseries.

On such a full sea are we now afloat,

And we must take the current when it serves,

Or lose our ventures.

— _Excerpt from _Julius Caesar_ by William Shakespeare_

* * *

Never before have I wanted so much to rush after, into the waiting arms of Death. I cannot remember a time where I felt more like exploding into a fiery rage, steeling myself into a machine of destruction before I follow the path of my Master. I cannot remember. I cannot think. I'm only dimly aware of my azure blade sliding back into its hilt—I cannot even remember activating it. The pain of the suddenly severed bond throbs steadily outside of this physical world that has allowed the body of my Master to fail.

I sink to my knees, wishing the Zabrak could have kept alive until now, that I might be able to exact some kind of retribution. It's a perverse thought, and I recognise it as such just enough to slip it out of the way.

My eyes refuse to close, but the Queen and her party mercifully block the view that might have dealt a killing blow to my spirit. The body of my Master lies somewhere by the door of the throne room, and I have every and no desire to see it. What use have I for an empty husk of a man? The quintessential substance of Qui-Gon Jinn has departed. He is not the first Jedi to fall to enemy fire, but his seems the first life I have ever lost, just as I felt the Zabrak was the first I'd ever killed. Today seems to be completely occupied by illusions of the initial.

The destroyer droids move quickly, bundling up the group into a tight, manageable package, never less than six guns trained on their captives. The group seems to have grown from when I saw it last; perhaps that's why they made less progress through the halls than I had expected. The additional numbers of soldiers must have come from rescuing efforts as they passed by.

I wonder why the droids haven't spotted me yet; after all, I am conveniently on my knees in the middle of the corridor. The thought brings a sour spike of humour, and I finger my inactive lightsaber, my brain picking up speed once again. The mission still isn't over; though I desperately want to collapse and drain myself of emotion, the hour does not call for it. I must do what I can to ensure the Queen's safety. Without moving my head, I quickly scan the corridor from side to side. Nothing but droid parts scattered across the floor. Perhaps I will be able to move to the side and secure my own safety. That done, I should be able to look after Queen Amidala—

My musings are interrupted by a deadly familiar sound rising behind me. It is the sound of a metal wheel driving up, grinding to a halt and assuming a killing position.

I rise to my feet and chance a look over my shoulder. The droideka is in full array, both guns trained on my every move.

Things are never so simple as they should be. Heaving a sigh, I drop my lightsaber, spreading my hands and moving them away from my body. I will accomplish nothing if I end up with my Master at this point.

I have no idea where the other droidekas appear from. Suddenly a dozen are pouring through the hall, swarming about the Queen's party, an equal number heading for me.

_Strange,_ I think wryly. _They seem to think I'd do a better job of fighting back, do they?_ A staccato breath emerges from my lips, what would have been a short, quiet guffaw. My eyes sting under the threatening pressure of a flood of tears that would wash me away, but somehow I manage to keep it back.

_Didn't they destroy the droids' control ship?_ I wonder. _These destroyer droids must be motivated by an ulterior source._ I can't put an estimate down of how large a backup force the Federation would have made for emergencies such as this.

She turns around, then, and catches my eye. Her expression is solidly stoic; I can hardly make out her eyes at this distance, but I can feel a spark extinguished within their depths. I wish she would forget about me—it's not as if she hasn't enough to worry about as it is. But she's sorry with all her heart, I know. Sorry because she thinks the loss of my voice was her fault, and sorry for the entire situation that brought about the downfall of my Master.

And then the oily mocking voice arises within me, one that I'd hoped never to hear again.

**_She thinks your stupidity is _her_ fault. What fun!_**

I grit my teeth, locating that familiar rage within me.

**_What do you think she would do if you blamed her?_** Good Friend is thoughtful in tone, as if tapping his chin while an ugly smile curls his lips.

My chest heaves under mental pressure. I need something to focus on, or my world will swirl out of control.

The droideka behind me. I reach out through the Force with a slightly crimson-tinted view, and adjust a few things with a minute and precise unseen hand.

The back armour plate falls off with a loud, punctuated _clang!_

Beginning to feel heady with success, I carefully keep a dull expression and grasp the droid again, this time reaching the small reactor core it keeps within itself. The connections to the core snap off one by one, and the destroyer droid powers down with a sudden whirring noise, some joints automatically locking and others going slack.

The other droidekas around me, numbering at about six now that the first has fallen, come to a higher state of alert, a few of them powering up their weapons fully. I know if I try something like that again, I'll be blasted to a charred lump in a matter of seconds. As a Padawan, I am not of value to the Federation's efforts to take Naboo, but I know they think I might provide a handy hostage, should the Jedi increase their attention here. The idea turns my stomach sick, that I should be the reason for a political _and_ military deadlock, the very thing the Jedi try in all earnestness to avoid.

Jedi.

I force a grim smile away from my lips.

_Jedi._

My memory snaps back to the first visit of the mission, where my Master and I projected illusions of ourselves escaping down the hall to draw the attacking pair of destroyer droids away from our true position. It was difficult while fleeing in a different direction, but I have confidence in my abilities to project a pair of beings while standing still.

With the Force, I locate several small pieces of scattered battle droid parts, and quietly, carefully feed them out the broken window. The droidekas as well as the humans in the corridor take no notice.

I sink into an open-eyed concentration now, bringing the parts a few meters from the outside of a different window. I picture in my mind a Master-Padawan pair, and coalesce light outside, bending and distorting until I have formed two sufficiently opaque images. They run forward with the droid parts in mid-air, and the moment when a real pair would have crashed through the windows, the droid parts smash through the panes of transparisteel, creating the illusion of two sapients jumping into the hall, lightsabers blazing.

Immediately, four of my six droidekas lock on to their images and begin firing. I've fooled their sensors enough for them to detect a semblance of body heat, but as my pair of Jedi look to be a reptilian species, they don't have to radiate quite as much warmth as a mammalian variety.

The Queen's party has definitely taken notice by now, and stare open-mouthed as the "Jedi" rush through the corridor, two droid parts hidden within each of them, and crash through the windows on the opposite side. Their path will lead them to an area of the palace that I noted to be particularly vulnerable to attack with a certain lack of guards. That just so happened to be the battle droids' business, and now that the control ship is down…

The four droidekas that had taken focus on my creations bundle themselves up into wheels and roll off down the hall at a fair pace. Now I only have two operating destroyer droids to work with.

Their motions seem more agitated, as one is attempting to cover the window and me at the same time. The droidekas surrounding the Queen and company are watching me more carefully, but don't seem to be inclined to move yet.

I swallow, my faith resting on my Master's last spoken words. He knew the Force was with us this day, and I am glad of it; today I will be needing it most.

I draw in again, creating another pair of a different species just out of sight outside the smashed window (one Selonian and one Arcona), and have them hurtle in, crossing the hall in giant leaps, and exiting where the first pair did. At the same time, I give motion to the droideka behind me, making it lift up and waddle to the side under my power.

Satisfied that I am guarded sufficiently, the remaining two droidekas bring in their limbs and roll off after the other four as reinforcements.

The droids around the Queen's party seem more concerned now, giving more attention. I have my puppet droideka retrieve my lightsaber from the floor with a mandible and move up to me, indicating for me to walk down the hall as a captive. Clasping my hands above my head, I rest them on the top of my skull in a surrender position and lead the droideka down the hall. It takes a long time to achieve any distance with the waddling gait of the droid, but I eventually have my puppet push me around a corner into an alcove. I bring both of us out of sight around the corner, then palm the door control as I relax my grip on the droideka. It sags back to its former dead position, and the door hisses open to reveal a room filled with computers and machinery. Swiping my lightsaber from the droid's mandible, I enter, closing the door behind me, and realise only when I lean against the wall that my forehead is coated in a sheen of sweat. I bring up my sleeve, which seems to have been serving this purpose more often than not of late. The semi-coarse fabric feels wonderful, but I cannot risk wasting much more time. I rub it across my forehead a couple of times, then turn my attention to the computers.

Fortunately enough, most of them read Basic instead of the local characters that have mystified me on a few occasions. However, legibility will not serve me much here. These certain computers seem to serve the sole purpose of monitoring the power feed to the various doors at this level of the palace. I cannot think how that would serve me at the moment. The Queen has been captured; I must not waste time playing with door controls.

I fumble at my belt for the comlink, knowing I must hail the Temple. Though I won't be able to speak through it, there is a pre-recorded message asking for urgent assistance set within all the comlinks the Order gives out—all a Jedi has to do is press a three-digit code and the message is broadcasted to the Temple…then I pause, and a curse echoes within my mind. The Federation has been jamming transmissions of all kinds since we left.

But there is one broadcast they have no power to stop. I concentrate my level best, feeding in a large amount of my energy to harness more, and send off a pulse to my Masters requesting urgent assistance.

Now I bend myself to another mental task. My first priority must be getting myself to safety; only from there will I be able to help the Queen and her citizens. I reach just outside the room with my senses, scanning for a likely place to cut through, and hopefully run off unobstructed.

My throat unties itself somewhat as I discover just what I'm looking for. Beyond the far wall is a slope, very steep but manageable, I believe. I gauge the slope by sensing the whereabouts of the plant life upon it. There are also many trees, ideal for cover.

It's more difficult to scan for the presence of droids, as they don't fall under the life form category, but I feel I should be relatively unimpeded once I get clear of the palace grounds.

Mentally crossing my fingers, I activate my lightsaber and apply it to the far wall, slowly making a small hole, then drawing it out again. I peer out the sizzling opening, watching carefully for any sign that the Federation's forces have taken notice. Satisfied with the inactivity, I begin cutting a larger hole, an ellipse standing on end, large enough for me to pass through without touching the superheated edges. Once finished cutting, I deactivate my lightsaber, solidly planting one foot against the piece of wall, kicking it outwards into the brush.

I look before stepping out, and immediately become relieved that I had had the foresight for that. The palace walls are high; the wall I have cut through continues on for another few meters, then terminates at a corner, producing a wall running from it at a right angle. It continues on for perhaps fifty meters, then ends. The windows on both walls begin on my level and continue upwards, but the slope begins much farther down than I'd anticipated.

I watch the section of wall that I had sliced keep falling for approximately three stories before crashing down into the brush, and grimace. It's not jumping I dislike so much as landing, but I have little choice in the matter. Loosening my body, I step over the lip of my cut and fall freely through the air, gathering up the Force beneath me. The impact is about as hard as I'd anticipated, and I let myself half-collapse to absorb the shock. I spring off the piece of wall and move quickly under the cover of the woods covering the slope, wanting to remain undetected by enemy sensors. My lightsaber's presence affords me some comfort, and I keep it loose in my hand as I move down the slope.

Now that I am relatively in the clear, I stop amid the high brush and breathe deeply, sending my senses out to locate the Queen. Her presence stands out a bit from the others', and I easily recognise it. Finding the same remnants of the bond I'd used earlier, I employ what voice I have, sending the message I've wished to give.

[_I have escaped, your Highness, and will do whatever I can to free you and your people. More Jedi should be on the way._]

Suddenly my concentration slips, and I'm glad I was able to send the whole message. I sit down hard on the forest floor, my head swimming. I know I've exerted myself over the limit, especially my control of the Force, and I feel burned out as a dying candle that's reached the base of its wick.

Allowing my concentration to relax somewhat, I gulp in the sweet air around me, generated by the hundreds upon thousands of trees and other plants about Theed. The atmosphere has an almost pristine feel to it; I know the Naboo do their level best to keep the condition of their homeworld, and for that, if nothing else, they have my respect. There is much more, of course, that captivates me about this world, but I have little time to dwell on that at the moment.

I pick myself off the ground wearily and begin stumbling down the slope, careful to keep a low speed and profile. Getting past any sensors will be a job in itself, and I know I must move cautiously, though I hardly have the capacity to trudge any faster. My feet begin to feel heavy, as if I am slogging through viscous knee-deep mud. I gasp for air; it seems to have gone as thick as the chimerical bog I'm churning through, layering the inside tissue of my lungs with heavy sweeps, as a mason would do with a trowel. The exhaustion takes the entirety of me, gorging on my strength (and possibly my sanity). I know I must find a place where I can rest until I've regained sufficient control.

My leaden feet drag themselves through the underbrush. I hardly care what I walk through anymore—shrubbery or clear ground, it still feels as if I slog through a thick mire. In its mindlessness, these moments are nearly as horrific as my nightmares to me. One of my greatest fears is losing my mind, fragile and invaluable as it is to me. My brain takes a moment to comprehend I have stopped crashing through undergrowth, and am now sloshing into water. Upon further inspection, I immediately realise I am wading into a wide river that runs deep and fast, its clear waters rolling by with a powerful quietness.

A brief walk down the bank lies a dilapidated old hut, half of it resting upon stilts that support the portion hanging over the river. Made out of wood that has obviously seen better days, the ramshackle dwelling appears deserted, and I approach it with a spark of hope. Somehow I don't much care if the droids find me; whatever happens, first I'll need a good sleep. I'll be no less conspicuous wandering about the woods than taking a repose inside this hut. Satisfied with my fuzzy evaluation of the situation, I make it to the door. It is of an old-fashioned build and I give it a gentle push, cringing at the loud, obnoxious squeak it gives before settling into a stationary position.

The interior smells musty and is dimly lit, the shutters over the few windows closed as tightly as possible. Sunlight streams in through a few cracks, however, making rays through the dust. I sneeze violently only a couple of steps in.

A startled cry rings out from behind the door then, making me jump and wheel around. I hadn't sensed anyone inside, but I push the door half-closed and peer into the dim corner.

It's an old man sitting upon a bed, his back resting on the wall, and he blinks rheumy eyes as I adjust to the darkness. "What business?" he croaks. "What business, huh?"

"Never mind him," a smooth alto voice comes from the opposite corner. I turn to see another, a woman rocking back and forth on her seat, a small baby in her arms. I'm even more astonished that I could have missed sensing _and_ seeing them, but her dark hair and clothes allows her to blend in with the shadows, and my sun-dazzled eyes easily might have passed over her in that case.

"He's crazy and half-blind," she says, looking down upon the baby, which waves a pudgy arm unsteadily. "Not as much as the Jedi, though."

I am slightly offended at this, but even more perturbed that I have no way to answer her. The Force seems elusive within this dwelling, slippery and difficult to grasp. With my exhausted concentration, it's nigh on impossible for me to get a sense of the woman or the old man. So instead, I try to show some interest in that last statement, and sit down on a chair close by her.

"Not only the Jedi Order," she continues, rarely looking up at me, "but the entire Senate. They're all blind. Can't see what's right in front of 'em." She grins, revealing a row of straight, white teeth, except for one missing canine on the top row. "Can't blame 'em for it, though. It's too bad, really." She adjusts the baby, rotating it in her arms, moving the head from one side to the other.

"Sidious plots," wails the old man suddenly. "Bad for business."

The confusing statements of the two only worsen the situation as the room takes on an oppressive feeling, as if the darkness generates the thick heaviness of the air, making it just as difficult to breathe as it was for me in the woods. I get up from the chair and totter toward the door, taking one last look at the woman in the corner.

She smiles again, a sinister expression. "Nice meeting you."

I can make no sense of it, and I move out the door, the sunlight blinding me. It swings shut behind me, and I stumble out into the tall grass.

"Hands up," a voice orders me, and I look up, shading my eyes. A human form stands there, wearing a dark-coloured uniform with a belt and shoulder strap, both bristling with weaponry. His raised arm holds a particularly nasty-looking and illegal blaster, and I recognise the emblazon upon the sleeve, marking him a mercenary of the organisation Nova Force.

_The Federation must be getting worried,_ I think as I spot three others coming closer to me, their weapons also centred upon my body. I raise my hands, and chance one look over my shoulder, back toward the hut.

It's gone. The bank continues on as if it was never there, the grass long and lush, profuse with wildflowers like any other section of bank along this river.

Mystified, I clasp my hands together over my head, returning my attention to the small mercenary force—but the movement of raising my arms brings small green spots to dance before my eyes again, and this time the darkness overtakes me.


	6. Calumnious Art

Calumnious Art

* * *

For thither he assembl'd all his Train,

Pretending so commanded to consult

About the great reception of thir King,

Thither to come, and with calumnious Art

Of counterfeited truth thus held their ears.

— _Excerpt from _Paradise Lost_ by John Milton_

* * *

A drawling voice grinds out words in a monotone: "…stable. Vital systems functioning. Brain activity present."

The world is a sterile-smelling doldrums. My eyelids are far too heavy to move, and so I occupy myself by feeling out my surroundings through my remaining senses.

The recycled air moves gently past my face, cool and bland. I can hear the quiet whirring of machinery about me, as well as a strange, partly muffled hissing sound—it alternates at relatively regular intervals from the sound of air being drawn in through a filter, to the air being pushed back out. I feel myself lying in a prone position upon my back, the upper half of my body put at a noticeable but slight incline. My eyes still stubbornly remaining shut despite my best efforts, I experimentally move my fingers. Their response is sluggish and weak, but improving steadily, and I feel them rubbing against the fabric of the bedsheet upon which I lie.

The memories choose that moment to crowd in, flooding my brain in a useful but startling deluge. On an impulse, I try to move my arms, and I feel a set of straps limiting my progress.

That provides sufficient motivation for my eyes to snap open, and a glaring white light intrudes upon my vision.

Confused, I attempt to work the puzzle out with a slowly awaking mind. I should have revived as soon as I'd hit the ground—which means someone must have shot me with either a stun bolt or a tranquilising drug of some sort, since my head feels intact and painless, only somewhat dazed.

_A drug,_ I know, from the physical and mental sensations I receive. _But why? A stun bolt would have been far quicker to administer, even if it wouldn't have kept me out for quite as long._

The hissing in-out sound of rushing air is beginning to infringe upon my unsteady thoughts. Annoyed, I wait for my eyes to adjust to the light while I try to figure out where the noise is coming from.

And then, with a certain degree of shock, I realise that the timing of the sound coincides with my own breathing. Every time I inhale, the sound of an air intake comes to me. Every time I exhale, the sound turns to that of air whooshing out the filter. Curious, I stagger my breathing, cutting off my inhalation halfway and exhaling in a rush. The sound follows suit without delay.

But only now do I actually realise the noise does not come from one of the machines around me. Their purpose is merely to monitor. No—I locate the sound at a different spot entirely.

My own throat.

It takes every last iota of my willpower to lie still. _What have they done to me?_ That answers any questions I had about the purpose of the anesthetic drug, at any rate. I hesitantly reach out with the Force, having a much better control by now, and find a few life forms curiously looking on from a different room.

I've been opening and closing my eyelids at small intervals up until now, feeding them small doses of the light around me. Now I'm able to open them fully, and I find myself in a medium-sized white room, my back and head raised high enough on the incline of the mattress to look down at the foot of my bed. On the far wall in front of me is a darkened pane of transparisteel, and it is behind the pane that I detect my observers. I begin to feel remarkably like a biological experiment, and the thought does absolutely nothing in the way of calming me.

At my movements, I hear a whirring to the right of me, and I cautiously turn my head to see the droideka with both its weapon-arms aimed directly at my head, obviously giving the message not to try anything stupid. An identical noise makes itself known to the left, and any hope of trying to escape flees my mind quickly. I cannot help but wonder if I will meet the same fate as that of Qui-Gon Jinn. But then, what of this thing implanted in my throat?

A door at the side of the room slides open, and I am not surprised to see an all-too-familiar Neimoidian step in, stooping slightly under the doorframe to ensure clearance for the head ornament. I watch him as carefully as the droidekas do me, uncertain of what he has in mind.

"You may have won some battles, but you have lost the war, young Jedi," he comments in a badly hidden smugly superior tone. I find his cowardice almost repulsive; this creature called Nute Gunray will seize every opportunity presented to him to gloat in his security and financial well-being.

"You may have noticed a small mechanism within your throat," he continues. "It will bring you no harm. We have enough knowledge of the human structure in our medical databanks to know upon inspection you were unable to speak, so we have provided you with a cybernetic voice for convenience's sake."

My curiosity piqued, I try out the device: "If you're expecting me to thank you, you're gravely mistaken." Although it has a noticeable mechanical timbre and the pitch is slightly deeper and more resonant than before, it sounds nearly identical to my true voice. My mouth still provides the power of speech while the device feeds it with sound, pitch, and nuances. Through the vibrations, I sense that the filter itself creates the synthetic voice while allowing breath to pass through it.

"No, we merely expect you to engage it when necessary."

I debate the wisdom of sending him a mental message. While it would make him rethink my abilities and possibly give him a grudging respect for me, it would likely be more ideal for him to underestimate my powers as a Jedi-in-training. "And if I should refuse?"

His dull eyes glint with a hardness I've never seen in a Neimoidian before, and certainly have never expected from this particular spineless specimen. "We plan to hook your thought processes directly to a voice synthesiser, from where we will be able to hear every thought of your mind."

"That's a dangerous and lengthy process. Are you willing to risk losing me?" _As well as all the credits_, I add silently. Besides being an expensive project in the extreme, hooking up neural sensors of this type involves attaching them directly into the brain, something that has never yet been attempted upon a human subject, I believe, and I confirm that by sensing the Viceroy's somewhat uncertain resolution on the matter.

"You are not invaluable. Keep that in mind." With that, he turns and leaves the room.

That news, while certainly not encouraging, was not wholly unpredictable. I try to shift into a more comfortable position, wishing they might have taken the slight trouble to cover me with a blanket. My trousers and boots are still on, and I'm grateful enough that they bothered to slip me back into my undertunic, at least.

I close my eyes, turning my scrutiny to my throat, attuning my senses. The device seems to have been inserted directly into my windpipe, sealed against the inside of the bronchial tube all around. The air feeds through the filter quite easily, though it produces a mechanical wheeze. I note that the neurons that used to feed impulses to my larynx are similarly connected to the device. Also, the little voice producer is not completely within my throat. A section of it protrudes out, uncovered by skin but not jutting out of my neck. I inspect the tissues around the device, and am most pleased and relieved to note the absence of infection. I know this surgery was performed by very capable hands, and am glad for it, as I might have expected less.

The next priority, I decide, is to locate myself. I doubt the Federation would have taken control over Naboo hospitals already to such an extent as to provide surgery, especially in such detail; I reach outside the room uncertainly, not wishing to assume anything.

But my feelings were true. I am aboard a starship; I can feel the notable lack of human presence and the cold, lifeless vacuum of space outside the hull. My stomach twists itself into a sickening knot—I know escape on my own will be impossible to manage. I can only hope I'm not in a transport of any kind. If I am removed from the orbit or even the system of Naboo, how much harder it will be for the Jedi to locate my presence…

I reach out again, out of necessity, just as the vibrations begin.

The sour taste of fear and dread rises in my mouth, and I swallow in a vain attempt to clear it away as I notice the sound of a somewhat distant hyperdrive begin to kick in. I am indeed on a transport, and not one of the sphere-and-ring starships blockading Naboo. This ship is much smaller, while still having the capacity for a medical ward. No doubt the ship's crew had waited until the Viceroy left to move into hyperspace, as it was likely Gunray wanted to maintain his presence about Naboo.

_They're taking me to someplace more secure where they can properly and safely barter for my release._ But why? Viceroy Gunray had just expressed his opinion on my worth as a hostage to the Federation. It made little sense that they would install a voice synthesiser and bundle me aboard a transport to some remote location. All for one Padawan? _I don't think so. There must be a reasonable explanation for all this._

One fact is that the Federation really doesn't need me. Knowing the Viceroy's general disposition, he would just as soon jettison me than go to all this trouble for some extra petty cash.

Another fact is that the Trade Federation's motives in stirring up this entire mess are as of yet unclear to me. Why would they wish to occupy Naboo in the first place? The Federation already has a small number of uninhabited planets for themselves; why would they need another, especially one with an established population? And why Naboo instead of a wealthier planet? Naboo is by no means poverty-stricken and backwards, but there are other planets that would yield an overall greater gain for the amount of trouble involved. Surely the Viceroy has realised this. _Hasn't he? He may be cowardly, but he's not that dull-witted._

_In that case, their occupation of Naboo may not be because of exports and imports or anything economical._

This thought makes even less sense. Those things are all the Federation operates on, all it truly cares about.

I sigh, the filter of the synthetic larynx lending an odd wheeze. It seems as if my speculations are leading me absolutely nowhere at all. _Well, if the Federation doesn't care about me, who does?_

The interesting question slips through my mind, and I only take notice of it as it begins to fade, grabbing it by the tail and giving it a shake almost too late.

_What if the Viceroy is giving me to someone else, making an untraceable trail?_ The problem is, I cannot think of anyone of any organisation who would want me as a captive any more than the Federation. Not enough to pay for me, anyway, as credits are undoubtedly what the Viceroy is counting on. I could imagine one of the Council members making a seemingly valuable hostage, but a lowly Padawan?

I simply don't have enough information to understand it. I draw in a deep breath, refreshing my mind, and decide to attack some other problem.

The hut. The hut beside the river, or more importantly the happenings within, and then its disappearance. _A vision, perhaps? I've never recalled one being so realistic—but there's no other explanation. Unless I'm going crazy._ The very thought of me losing my mind is enough to send a chill touch of fear down my spine, which is a good thing, considering I'm lucid enough to feel fear. _I'll assume it's a vision, then. What of its significance? Did the people within the hut represent anything? Did the hut itself? The dust in the air?_ There seems to be an infinite amount of factors that could be involved. My eyes still closed, I replay the memory within my mind, step by step.

"Bad for business," comes the familiar wail, and I open my eyes with a start.

The same old man slowly trudges up to the foot of my bed and looks down at me despairingly. I can identify him easily, but I'm surprised at how very old he looks. The dim innards of the cabin hid much of the age from his face—he looks far older than I've ever seen a human, perhaps two hundred.

I want to ask him who he is. I want to know why he is here, and how he came in without opening the door if he's not a vision. But one way or the other, my mouth does not move. Again, the Force feels evasive in his presence, and I cannot read anything from him whatsoever. Even more curious, the droidekas on either side of me take no notice of him at all.

One gnarled hand emerges from the voluminous robes (which seem to be in typical Jedi colours), searching for the firmest spot at the foot of the bed where he can sit. I try to move my feet obligingly, but they too are secured with straps. He sits anyway, breathing heavily and blinking often, his eyes seeming to be unfocused. The mattress sinks under his weight accordingly, as if he were real.

Then he twists himself about as best he can, facing me. His eyes have a few seconds of clarity in which they focus upon my face. He blinks twice, his face drooping into a sorrowful expression, and mumbles, "Sidious plots." He brings up one unsteady hand, and points at me, wheezing, "Bad for business…" Then the clarity of his expression fades and his spine loses what posture it had as he glumly turns to face the wall.

A movement to the right catches my eye, and I turn my head to see the woman standing there, holding the baby in her arms and jostling it gently on occasion. Contrary to the old man's situation, in the light she appears younger than before, perhaps in her mid-twenties. Now I can see the infant's face peering out of the folds of dark cloth, and it looks to be a toddler instead of the newborn I'd thought it was.

The woman sighs, adjusting the child in her arms, never taking her eyes off the old man and completely ignoring me, speaking to her progeny instead. "Not much time left, now. Your grandfather used to be strong, but he became weak quickly. We'll last a lot longer, won't we? We'll leave a proper legacy behind." She smiles down at the child, a beautiful expression except for the malicious glint in her eye.

The old man doesn't appear to hear her, or notice her at all, sitting very still.

Shifting the child again, the woman sets him down on the floor, still holding his hands. The little one wobbles precariously on his feet for a moment, then takes hesitant steps in the old man's direction, accelerating surprisingly quickly as his upper body moves forward, the little feet trying to catch up. This the old man notices, and turns toward the baby with a soft wordless cry, infused with joy and hope—but before the child can reach the old one, the woman swiftly strides forward, reaching out and striking the side of the elder's head with a hard blow. I tense and gasp, watching the old man's body crumple and slide off the bed, hitting the floor with a muffled thump as the woman looks to the child.

The baby begins to cry. She reaches for him, to pick him back up, but he runs, beyond her reach and around the bed, to the left side of me, coming around to the head of the cot. She follows, seizing up her skirts and giving chase. They move out of sight as they circle the bed, and I crane my head back, trying to shout, but somehow I cannot. And when I look back, in hope that their path might take them back into sight, I notice the prone form of the old man is gone, as is all sounds of the pursuit behind me.

Shaken, I unclench my fists that had automatically curled up at the atrocity. The sight haunts me, burned into my memory. I hope it will prove to be useful in the future—Force knows it's already painful enough. I had already begun to feel a sort of connection to the old man. For what reason, I do not know. Who can say why the mind works as it does? Or the Force, for that matter.

I hear a door hiss open somewhere behind my head. Unable to see there, I listen intently, wondering who would bother to come in after the Viceroy had come in to inform me on my position. No doubt I was under constant surveillance—what would this new sentient want? Its gait sounds different than the Viceroy's, the quiet footsteps pattering in at a higher rate. I hear it coming around to the right side, and I wait for its appearance, rolling my eyes over and reaching out to get a sense of it.

The droidekas also take notice of this new visitor, but keep their weapons trained on me. I repress a sigh, any insignificant hopes of a rescue effort dwindling away.

It's a Sullustan, I see soon enough, thinner than most I've seen and peering down at a datapad as he comes up to the side of my bed and dressed in a type of scrubs. He shifts his gaze to my face. "Uh-hummm. The implant is working well?"

"There haven't been any problems," I reply, "though this infernal breathing noise is rather intrusive when I'm alone."

Slight humour pinches the corners of his round black eyes as he produces a small hand-held mirror and brings it by my chin, slowly angling it. "Yes. Now tell me when you have a good view of the implant."

"That's it," I say as soon as the view centres itself. I cannot help but gape at the thing, knowing it's within my own neck. Not much more than ten square centimetres are visible of it, mostly a small panel with a few lights and one or two switches and what seems to be connection inlets. The surface runs nearly flush with my skin, as I had suspected before.

"Good," the Sullustan says. "Now. Do you see the black switch? If you will allow me…" He reaches up underneath my chin, and through the mirror I see one spindly finger depress the switch.

I can hear a quiet whirr start up in my throat, and all of a sudden the unnatural noise of my breath is gone. I look at him curiously and try to ask him what happened, but no sound emits from my mouth, just as before I got this implant.

He knows my question anyway; he nods as he withdraws the mirror. "That moved the membrane inside the device. Instead of spanning your windpipe, it has rotated ninety degrees to allow the air to pass unobstructed, as the membrane itself is quite thin. Pressing the same switch again will move it back into position. If I may?"

I nod, and he thumbs the button again. A short moment passes, and my speech returns.

"What does the other switch do?" I ask.

"Oh, it allows you to tune the membrane, as it were. These sockets will hook the device up to a certain machine that will allow you to download more programmed voices in, and once you have expanded your database to more than one voice, pressing this gray button will let you run through your repertoire. Fascinating, no?"

"Yes. Fascinating," I murmur, not thrilled at all. "I don't believe I've ever heard of such a design before."

The Sullustan puffs himself up somewhat. "That's because it hasn't gotten around much yet. I just made it a couple of standard years ago. It has undergone many tests, the result of which you saw here. It'll serve you well, I can assure you."

There will always be such creatures who think too much of their ingenuity, and need a bit of deflating from time to time to keep a healthy and down-to-earth mind. Such is the Sullustan's case, I presume, after a quick brush of his mind and posturing on the subject. I turn my head to look at him with a vexed stare. "No one ever asked me if I actually wanted one."

He wilts, ever so slightly, but it's enough for anyone with a trained eye to notice. "You _need_ one," he presses, somewhat unsure of how far I'll take this. "That's the idea. Necessity is the—"

"Mother of all invention," I finish wearily for him. "I did not even _need_ one, if that's what you're thinking. I'm perfectly capable of communicating with the others of my Order."

"Order?" The Sullustan looks at me with a puzzled expression written upon his jowled face, then he blanches. "No one said I was dealing with a Jedi."

I roll my eyes to the ceiling, not wishing to again clarify the point that I am in fact just a Padawan, and not Jedi yet. "Apparently you've been kept in the dark about many things. But perhaps you can tell me why the Federation requires me to have the power of speech at all."

He fiddles with the datapad, turning it over in his little hands while studiously avoiding my gaze. "I'm only a surgeon. I don't hear much while I'm cooped up in the med wards. Besides, it's not really my place to know."

"You can tell me what you do know," I suggest softly. "I'll keep it a secret."

He pauses for a moment, as if considering, then nods. "I can tell you what I do know. You'll keep it a secret. Won't you?"

"Of course," I assure him, thankful I was able to perform a mind-trick without using my hands to direct the flow of power.

"Well," the Sullustan says thoughtfully, quietly, leaning against the side of my bed, "there's been some rumours circulating that say Gunray really isn't the main power, here. There's talk of someone else running the show, from a hidden platform. You know?"

I nod once, keeping my voice low. "So perhaps there isn't as much underneath that three-pronged head-dress as everyone thought."

The Sullustan snickers. "Guess not, in that case. From what I understand, he's just a lackey for this hidden sentient, who's got his own agenda. I don't know what he's up to, but seeing from what's been going on, it can't be good. Either his ideas are going to be something revolutionary, or he's going to plot himself into a really deep rut, one that the Republic'll bury him in."

I shiver, remembering the wail of the old man. _Sidious plots! Bad for business!_ "What do you suppose this hidden sentient wants?"

He gives me a toothy grin. "Money, or something. That's why people plot, right? Because they want more of whatever power they've got. Now if you'll excuse me, I have some other things to check up on." Clutching the datapad securely, he makes back to the door I cannot see, exiting the room.

I sink back, relaxing muscles I hadn't known I'd tensed, and began to think again. _Sidious plots? Did he mean insidious plots? That's rather non-specific. Many beings come up with insidious plots. But if he did mean to say "sidious", what does that mean?_ I frown, closing my eyes, annoyed by the hissing sound of my breath, and reach for the button with the Force very carefully.

I am successful—the membrane within my throat rotates and the sound stops, leaving the room in an eerie quiet. A silence that I can put to use.

I try to piece this puzzle together, albeit with very limited knowledge of the situation._ So there may be a hidden planner directing the Viceroy. That would mean, then, that this plotter would have instructed the Federation to invade Naboo. That makes more sense, anyway, than if the Federation would have operated on its own. This hidden agenda makes things more complicated, but it clears up that question at least. I can try to find why our elusive plotter wishes to occupy Naboo later. But for now…_ I have an intuitive feeling that the visions of the old man, woman, and child are intimately connected to this puzzle, but I haven't the slightest inkling how. Not yet.

I relax even further, letting loose the troubles of my mind and body. I feel any sort of vision would be helpful at this stage, no matter how troublesome to me. I let go of myself, wandering into the soothing embrace of the Force, sinking into a meditation.

**_You didn't think it would be that easy, did you? I'm still here, you realise. You can't get rid of me._**

I gasp, my eyes snapping open, staring wildly at the ceiling. It was too close an encounter.

**_I might have had you, right then. A shame really, but I suppose there'll be another time. No living being can keep their guard up at all times._**

_Not even you,_ I think to him, remembering the instant before the Zabrak's death.

**_But now I'm invincible. You can't kill a being who's already dead._**

_Why must you attach yourself to me? Why can you not rest in a peace you've never earned?_ I clench my teeth, warding off an attack on his part.

**_What? Would you rather I occupied someone else? Amidala, perhaps?_**

My breath hisses between my teeth. _You wouldn't dare._

Ah, but I would. The only way you'd be able to rid her of me would be to execute her, and you'd never be able to do that, would you?

I close my eyes. _Why don't you find someone else? Like the hidden planner, perhaps. Make yourself useful and find out who he is._

Mocking laughter echoes throughout my mind. **_I already know him, foolish Padawan. And you'll never guess what he's doing right now._**

I ball up the loosened bedsheet inside my fists, and gather the courage to ask, _What?_

At the end of this trip, he's waiting for you.


	7. Of Relations and Meanderings

"Freedom is an elusive concept. Some men hold themselves prisoner even when they have the power to do as they please and go where they choose, while others are free in their hearts, even as shackles restrain them."

— _Zensunni Wisdom from the Wandering_

* * *

Of Relations and Meanderings

* * *

Hazed. I might as well have been hazed all my life. It is all I am, at the moment. My thoughts blur together, melding into an unmanageable clump that is at the same time a viscous liquid—I am completely unable to discern one thought from another. My sense of touch is gone awry, it seems. Though my arms, in reality, lie still from shoulder to finger, it feels as if they slowly turn about, twisting and going back again to turn the other way, then sinking beneath the surface of the bed before rising into the air. These sensations do not happen in order, however; they come all at once, overwhelming my confused mind.

I shake my head quickly a few times, trying to clear it, to feel the solidity of the bed beneath me. I wriggle my arms, making them feel what they really are lying on in a proper manner. I remember my legs, and the rest of my body, and I tense and relax all the muscles I have control of, feeling and knowing every component is still here. I am still here, in this concrete world, and that one bit of knowledge must worm its way into the darkened recesses of my mind.

A bitter sensation roils within me, but I recognise it as not my own. Good Friend has suffered a defeat at my hands, as I have returned my senses to here and now.

_Where I belong._ I brush my senses against that closed wound where the bond between me and my Master was so violently torn away. This present moment is indeed where I need to stay during my waking hours—it is my duty to remain so throughout my life.

Cool fingertips lightly brush across my eyelids. The mild chill sinks underneath, soothing my eyes from their heated rest. I open them slowly, bringing them to focus in the ever-present white light of this room that is both my hospital and my prison.

It is her. The woman slowly paces down the left side of my bed, travelling upon footsteps I cannot hear no matter how I enhance my hearing. She seems to float upon the air, so smoothly she moves. Her dark hair is long and loose, completely obscuring her face from my perspective and falling in lazy curls past her waist. Though black in appearance, a bit of red comes out where the highlights glow. Then the throaty melody reaches me, hovering about the alto range, smooth and rich, and possibly the most beautiful voice I've ever heard. Her long-fingered hand trails along the side of the bed as she sings, her strange guttural words somehow complementing the ethereal notes in a way I'm not sure I wish to think upon for too long.

Somehow her solitary song is backed up by subconscious music, and I know the chords simply by hearing them, a mystery I don't really care to work out as of yet. I run their identities through my thoughts to keep my mind working as my eyes are lulled shut again.

Her voice softens deceptively as she seats herself on the left corner of the foot of my bed—I only know through feeling the bed sink incrementally.

I must stay awake. I _must_ stay alert, and on my guard. _But isn't it all right? Perhaps I'm supposed to sleep…perhaps that's why she's here…_

_No,_ I mouth. But it seems it's too late as her voice sinks to a near-whisper, winding up the imperceptible fabric of the music she is casting over me.

My eyes snap open and I immediately find myself looking into the dark and turbulent depths of her eyes.

She smiles gently, a mothering expression, and says to me: "You cannot escape it. It is your destiny."

With an effort, I rotate the speaking membrane back into place to reply. "No one can dictate the destiny of another. It's not the way of things."

"That remains to be seen, does it not?"

I pinch my brow, remembering something. "And where is your child now?"

All traces of the kindness upon her face flee as she looks upon me with a blank yet dangerous expression, as if she has no idea what I speak of, but wishes me to drop the subject all the same.

"Where is he?" I repeat.

The fury that gathers in her face is startling. Suddenly the negligible breeze in the room accelerates to a frenetic gale, whipping her hair about her face and her robes about her feet, and I can hardly help flinching as she stands quickly, a conflagration kindling in her eyes, her voice coming to my ears in a superhuman roar, "_All is lost! Because of you!_" She points a stiffened finger at me, the wind still howling in my ears as I cringe in my restraints, alone and helpless before her maddened wrath.

The squall makes her into a menacing creature, her hair lashing the air about her, her eyes seeming to glow, boring into me. The white light of the room increases to an almost unbearable point, and the dim thought enters my mind: _It's too bad the Viceroy isn't here to see this._

Her long pale fingers twine themselves into her hair as she tilts her face upward and wails, "_We had the way! We _knew_ what the future would hold! And now it has betrayed us! It has scattered us back into the ashes we once were! How much longer must we wait?! This _one ignorant child!" she howls furiously, looking back down at me. Her face has contorted itself into the most fearful expression I believe I will ever behold; I am utterly terrified by the look in her fathomless eyes alone. Her rage has sapped the warmth from the air, and I lie upon the bed shivering, lonely and fearful, reduced to little more than a crècheling before her tempest.

Her feet carry her onto the edge of the bed, and she stands over my feet, looking down upon me balefully. "You… you will see light not much longer, one way or another. Remember this, little one: _you are mere clay._"

My breath sticks stubbornly somewhere in my throat as she vanishes; the light goes back down to its usual radiance and the gale dwindles down to the insubstantial breeze it had been before her arrival, but the air. The air is still cold. I can see the small condensed cloud of moisture that exits my mouth, puffing out with each breath, though it is reduced from what it might have been had the filter inside my throat been rotated to its ineffective position.

_Mere clay? Am I to be shaped, to be fashioned into something else? By whose hands?_ My mind sticks itself into that resolute stubbornness that has sometimes worked against me, sometimes for me. _I don't think so. I won't allow it._

Good Friend's voice chortles within my mind.**_ Oh, no? You are painfully mistaken, daft little Padawan. You underestimate the hold that the dark side can have on a person._**

_From which you cannot escape,_ I retort.

**_Why would I wish that? Everything I desire is here. The same would go for you, if you would but let it._**

_Why should I trust you? You've tried to kill me. That's not exactly an effective method of turning someone._

And why shouldn't it be? There are no three ways about it; you will turn, or you will die.

I gaze up to the ceiling. _So be it._

As always, I have a choice. Either I can become ensnared in the dark path, or forgo these paths at all. Neither of them are particularly welcome to me, but I know which one I will choose, should the time come, and I have little doubt it shall.

* * *

Sleep rarely comes easily to one who waits, especially when it is known that at the end of the waiting period will come a time that will determine the rest of one's life—or the lack of it thereupon. My eyes refuse to remain closed for much more than a few minutes at a time, and the muscles within my eyelids jitter incessantly while they are shut. Minutes stretch into hours, hours into seeming years, and sleep does not come. Forgoing all hope of it, I begin to sink into a light meditation with the utmost care, on the alert for any intrusions on the part of Good Friend.

To my relief, he remains silent. I'm very encouraged by this seeming success of mine, but I dare not go any deeper into a more vulnerable place. Either he does not care to trespass at the moment, or he's waiting to ambush me once I've passed the point of no return, in a manner of speaking. I am most assuredly not willing to gamble on the two outcomes, and I settle for an insubstantial trance.

…With the odd sensation that someone is watching me. The feeling grows; I snap out of my meditation, looking about as much of the room as I'm able, and feeling out the rest with the Force.

No one exists beyond me, Good Friend, and the watchful droidekas. I am mystified once again, something that's been happening alarmingly often of late. I try to find any trail that the watcher might be making—and just as soon as I begin to scent one out, it vanishes into the steady patterns of the Force.

_What on Kessel?_ I shake my head once, staring back up to the ceiling.

I thought things had already become inexplicably strange. I know I'm wrong as the bindings that keep me restrained to the bed suddenly release with a loud _click_ and withdraw into their slots, leaving me free to move.

I sit up, startled, and look about. The droidekas do not seem to be alarmed; rather the contrary. They waddle back a few paces, and power down, to my astonishment.

I swing my legs off and stand up cautiously, never taking my eyes off the destroyer droids, never letting my senses vacate the surrounding rooms. It seems this entire section is abandoned by all sentient life forms.

_Is this a trap? An experiment to see how far I'll go?_ My bare feet are pricked by the coldness of the deeply burnished floor. I look down to see my reflection, and I notice the mercenaries must have been none too gentle with me. One of my cheekbones is marked with dark purple, but even more noticeable…

My heart seems to slow to a dead stop, moving forward again with great difficulty as my fingers reach up to brush against the hair behind my ear where my Padawan braid once hung. I can feel the spot where it was shorn off; the base of the braid is still a bit longer than the rest. _Why did they take it? As a hostage, I thought every bit of my identity would have been important to their purposes. If I'm not a hostage, what am I?_ I try to swallow the knot that my throat has worked itself into, and glance at the droidekas. They are every bit as motionless as when last I checked, literally dead to the world, having not budged a millimetre.

I take a long, deep breath. _It's plain they want me to explore—and explore is what I'll do._ Even if my poking around could provide them with some advantages, I want to know this ship, at least my immediate surroundings, as a mental map would gain me advantages of my own.

The room is still quite cold; I shiver, rubbing my arms. My undertunic really isn't thick at all and provides almost no thermal protection. Having bare feet doesn't exactly help the situation, either, and I can only hope the rest of the ship will be warmer than the medical room. I mince across the floor on silent feet, heading for the door that the Sullustan came through. It's like the other door—bland, rectangular, and white, no panelling or decorative markings of any kind. I hesitantly reach to the panel, and the door comes open with a muted hiss.

The air _is_ warmer outside the room, thankfully; I can feel it drifting in, coming up and over the escaping cold air, leaving my bare feet still freezing but bathing my upper body in warmth. I step outside into the somewhat dim corridor, noting the similarity in design to the Federation blockade ship that my Master and I had first arrived on. It isn't very long, only a few meters, and it ends in a junction with another hall.

I walk to the end, and look each side down the three-way intersection. To the right the lighting is noticeably better, and the hall itself longer.

I turn my head to the left. Nothing there, really, only a few meters of dim corridor with a pair of darkened doors at the end, looking neglected and lonely.

Whatever happens, I know I must see what lies this side of the corridor, or I'll become far too restless for my own good. Even if there's nothing here.

I am only a few steps in when I see a small form at the end of the hall, obscured by the poor lighting. I squint, coming closer to see it better.

It's the baby of my previous visions, wandering about alone and bewildered, looking at one of the doors before gazing up at me pitifully, raising his chubby hands in a wish to be brought up into my arms. Though I try to convince myself he's only an insubstantial vision, I bend down to pick him up, and to my surprise my fingertips brush against the little body of what feels to be a real child—

**_Get lost,_** snarls the voice of Good Friend, not aimed at me this time.

The child starts and takes a couple of unsteady steps backward, looking at me in confusion. I try to placate him by kneeling down to his eye level, and holding out my arms to him—

**_Get lost. There's no room for little babies here._**

The child begins to cry, turning away and pacing unsteadily down the hall. I try to catch up, but when I reach down to touch his shoulder in reassurance, he is gone.

I stand up, turning my cold thoughts to Good Friend. _What business was it of yours? You had no right to turn him away, vision though he was._

He doesn't reply, but I receive the distinct sensation that he is smirking. Disgusted, I look about at my surroundings, my eyes adjusted to the dimmer light.

There are only two doors at this end of the hall, close to the end and on opposite sides, both a matte black and as plain as the one I exited the medical room through. I choose the door that the baby had looked at, perhaps out of instinct, that feeling of simply _knowing_ it's the one I must go through.

That's the moment that Good Friend's smirk vanishes.

The door slides open with no resistance, revealing a room about the same size as the medical chamber, the walls a metallic gray. I step in, looking about—and I freeze at the sight that the far right wall presents to me, lit underneath brilliant white lights.

Old men, women of all ages, and a few children, encased within individual vertical transparent plasteel chambers that seem to be built into the wall, eyes closed, immobile, and silent, all wearing a style of clothing I've come to recognise as a vague standard fashion on Naboo.

My heart leaps to my throat, and I approach the chambers quickly. _Dead? I cannot feel anything from them._ Oh, the chaos this evidence would create in the Senate, if I could but gather a record of tangible proof and send it back! The Trade Federation would be shut down, and—

Then I see the computer panel on the very end of the row of chambers. I hurry over, wondering if it could offer me any information on the state of these captives, though I have little hope they are still alive. My eyes scan over the numerous screens and mazes of buttons, searching for any kind of indication.

I find one. It is a monitor of life, keeping track of the vital signs of the people. It reads they have been gassed, sent into a safe hibernation. Hope rises in me as I look over the information it provides. Perhaps I could take one of these people with me, find an escape pod or vehicle of some kind, and blast out of here. Taking them all would never work; it would likely mean death for the whole group. But if I could get one, just one to bring along, we might be able to slip through.

I find an indicator of hibernation depth on each of the people, and locate a reading on the person that is least into the deep slumber, thinking they will be the easiest to revive with the least side effects. The reading only offers an identifying number, and as the chambers are not labelled, I have no idea who I am awakening. But all I can do is hope for the best.

I press the button that will rouse the person's consciousness from the hibernation trance, and dial for the opening of that specific chamber. The gasses must have been most effective in rendering them unconscious; I can sense nothing from them. But then, the Force has been feeling somewhat clouded of late, in a strange way I've never felt before.

For about a minute, there is no activity whatsoever. I grow a little nervous, wondering if anything went wrong, and check the computer frequently. It gradually gives a small _beep_, and I turn back around to the chambers, reaching out with my senses to locate the one that is waking.

A mind stirs near the end of the row; I walk quickly down, hoping to get there before the chamber starts opening, in case the waking form falls out onto the floor. I reach the chamber in plenty of time, though, as about ten seconds pass before the chamber's sealed door pushes out a little, and slides to the side.

She's perhaps as tall as I, or slightly shorter, though it's difficult to tell with her on the raised floor of the chamber. Her dark hair is loose and mostly straight, falling over her shoulders. I guess her to be about twenty years of age, give or take a few.

She stirs, her limp body leaning against the support beginning to posture itself, enough for her to stand free of the support. I reach up to my throat, wanting to be able to speak once she comes around, and hold myself ready to catch her if she falls, as she still seems very unsteady and not nearly fully awake.

"M… Mom?" she croaks, her eyes fluttering halfway open, and her knees buckle. The design of the support makes her topple forwards—I quickly move under her, catching her with the Force to keep the whole of her above the ground, and turn her over, my hands outstretched as I manipulate the eddies of energy, gently bending her into a sitting position and lowering her slowly to the ground, putting a hand to her back as soon as she touches down.

Her mind is filled with confusion, that much I can sense; she tilts her head back to look at me vaguely with a pair of deep brown eyes and asks in a numb-sounding voice, "Wh-where's Mom?"

"Relax," I tell her. "Your mother's safe for the moment." That much is likely. Either her mother's in one of these chambers, or back on Naboo. I find her hand and clasp it in my own for some small measure of reassurance. Physical contact and familiarity are two of the best things for easing a troubled and confused human mind, I know. "I'm Obi-Wan Kenobi. What's your name?"

She swallows. "Sola. I'm Sola Naberrie. Where am I?"

"In a Federation ship," I tell her quietly. "But don't worry. I'm a friend to Queen Amida—"

She gasps then, and her back goes rigid. "Is she all right? Did anything happen to her? Do you know where she is?"

"Her Highness…" I trail off, troubled. "She's all right, though I believe she's been captured."

Sola clutches my hand tightly, in a painful and surprisingly strong grip. "Oh, Padmé… I was so worried this would happen… she's my little sister," she chokes. "And I'm so afraid they're going to use our parents and me as leverage, for her to sign that…" She clenches her teeth, closing her eyes tightly. "…the treaty…"

"I told the Jedi of Naboo's situation," I say, trying to avoid wincing. Her crushing grip magnified considerably over her last word. "They'll be there shortly, and I don't doubt your sister will be all right."

She lets her head tilt back to look at me again, squinting slightly, and letting her fingers relax, to my relief. "Everything's dark and blurry," she says softly. "I don't feel so good."

"That happens after a while in hibernation. You'll be able to see just fine in a while," I reassure her. "Without the light that's in here, you might have been totally blind for a time."

Sola gives the slightest hint of a smile. "Thank elysium for small favours. But how did you get here?"

I glance back at the door for a moment. "I was also captured by the Federation. But they seem to have released me, to a certain extent. I'm not sure why."

She pauses, for what seems a long while. "Odd," she says finally. "But then, everything has been. I don't know why they came to Naboo in the first place." She shivers. "Are you going to get us out of here?"

"I'm afraid I can only take one," I tell her grimly. "Even two would be too much of a risk while escaping, and I don't know how many one of their escape pods can contain. If we get away successfully, we must somehow get to Coruscant—"

"But I can't leave without Mom," she says, her emotions in an uproar. "She might die here, and wherever Dad is…" She trails off, heaving a stilted sigh.

"Is your mother in this group?"

She nods numbly. "I think so. But I can't see her. I can't see anything properly."

"Do you want me to help and try to clear your vision up sooner?" I ask. "It might take hours on its own."

I get a sceptical look from her. "And how exactly would you do that?"

"I'm a Jedi Padawan," I tell her. "It should be possible for me to speed up the process with the Force."

Sola reaches out with an unsteady hand and grabs the front of my tunic collar tightly, pulling down. "No mind-tricks."

"Of course not," I agree.

She pauses for a moment, then lets go and relaxes. "Okay, I guess. How will you do that?"

"I'll put you into a light trance of sorts. From there, I'll use the same healing techniques I use on myself. It can be a little difficult working it on another, but I've done it before. I think it should take anywhere from twenty minutes to half an hour for a relatively small thing like this." I look around the room in vain for something in the way of soft fabric to put under her head. "You'll have to put your head on the floor, I'm afraid."

She shakes her head, and begins to tug off her overcoat that covers her dress. Both pieces are elaborate but not overly so, simple enough to avoid gaudiness by a wide margin. She struggles with the coat for a moment, and we both seem to realise at the same time that she's sitting on the bottom hem. She pushes herself off the floor a bit and slips it out from underneath her, then balls it into a heap, shoving it at the floor and resting her head on it, then looks up at the general area of my head expectantly.

"It will help me if you clear your mind," I suggest.

She hesitates. I can see her reluctance to allow a complete stranger into her mind, but I sense she has a certain degree of trust in most things Jedi. Hopefully most of Naboo's population shares those sentiments, or it will be a much more difficult job for my Masters to clear up.

"I'm ready," she tells me quietly, and closes her eyes.

Sola has a strong mind, much like her sister. It isn't too difficult for her to push away surface thoughts and focus herself into a quieted presence. She finds a calm centre, despite what she's been put through, what she has seen over the Trade Federation's occupation of Naboo. The ability to lay fears completely aside, even temporarily, is a skill not quickly learned. I almost fall to wondering what the rest of her family might be like when I snap back to my duty here.

Shunting my own thoughts away, I extend my hand, moving it to within one or two centimetres of her forehead, letting it hover there as I gather the Force. She inhales deeply, and I pull her into a trance as the breath comes out, her consciousness leaving with the air from her lungs.

Once I'm satisfied she's in securely enough, I turn my scrutiny to her eyes, moving my hand just a little so to come over her smoothed brow. Her eyes are lazy with inaction and difficult to stir into a better form of action; it takes about as long as I anticipated. The minutes pass by very quickly while I am at work, and I can feel them fleeing, able to keep track of them to an extent, accurately enough for a good estimate. Ten pass by, and another ten; her eyes are nearly worked into a proper state.

Then, suddenly, I know I'm finished, and I pull back my senses, drawing her back to reality as I do so. I sit back, clasping my hands over my knees, waiting for her to come around. It isn't long before she stirs, her eyes opening to bare slits.

"Did you start yet?" she asks fuzzily.

"I'm finished."

Sola rubs her eyes, and opens them as far as she can while they're still unadjusted to the light. She looks at me, and a tentative smile tugs at her lips. "It worked. I can see perfectly."

I do my best to return the smile. "It only served as a catalyst, but it will be much easier for you to see where you're going."

That makes her sober instantly, the slight smile vanishing without a trace, and she sits up to look at the rest of the group still contained within the transparent chambers. "But what about them? Can't you even bring one more?" She twists herself around to face me. "They all have to be in terrible danger. Half of us have close connections with Padmé, and the rest with some other important official on Naboo. If you don't do something…"

"I am doing something, but there's only so much I _can_ do." I raise my eyebrows helplessly. "It's the way things are right now. I told you of the dangers of escaping this ship."

I can see her face fall, but she half-turns back toward the group and points to one of the chambers. "What about Palo? He might be able to help. The rest of the men are old or too young, but…" She trails off desperately. "Why did you pick me, anyway, and not one of the others?"

The comely dark-haired youth she pointed out looks healthy enough, but I shake my head. "I'm sorry. I brought you out of hibernation because you were the one that was the closest to consciousness. We're already wasting time, as it is." I stand up, and offer her my hand. "Please. I doubt you'll be in any more danger than you already are if you come with me."

The look she gives me is tainted with disappointment and dread, but she clasps my hand all the same and allows me to help her up, snatching her overcoat off the floor on the way. Once standing, albeit a little shakily, she shakes the coat out and dons it again, flicking a speck of dust off the front.

"All right," she says. "Let's go for a walk."

**_All three of us._**

I stumble back at Good Friend's voice, gasping at his sudden intrusion.

Sola is at my side instantly, gripping my shoulder firmly but gently. "What's wrong? Are you all right?"

"I… I'm fine." I straighten up, trying to collect myself.

**_How long do you think the wench will last? Perhaps an hour, if she's lucky, noting your bad fortune._**

_No such thing as luck._ I notice the alarmed look remaining on her face. "Don't worry about me. We'd best be going."

She tentatively nods once. "After you."

Good Friend's snide laughter fills my mind as I clench my teeth and head for the door. **_You're not blinding me with your "truths". They're pitiful makeshift sticks, at best. You'd better try coming up with some effective weapons, or I might just be here forever._**

_Is that a challenge?_ I grit out at him, coming out into the hall with Sola close behind.

**_Call it as you will. It doesn't matter—it's not your game._**

I inhale deeply, pouring out my anger with the next breath. I can feel Sola's apprehension; I turn to her, stopping for a moment, keeping my voice low. "It's all right—I'm not angry with you. Now, I'm going to have to switch off my voice for silence's sake, so this breathing of mine won't carry down the halls. If I need to speak with you, I'll send you a mental message. All right?"

"I suppose so," she says cautiously, stealing a curious glance at the mechanism within my throat. "I guess that explains what that is."

I smile for a moment, and press the button. The membrane rotates back, and I can breathe silently once more. I nod at her to follow, and we carry on down the hall.

**_So, where do you think you're headed to now?_**

_Away from you._ I wish fervently that were possible. _You already know what I want._

**_So does the hidden planner, as you call him. He's been watching you. I'm not the only one who knows of your wishes._**

My mind works away furiously as I hesitate, then turn a corner, trusting the Force to lead me where I need to go, if it is with me today. _So he is Force-sensitive, then._

_**You should have guessed.**_

_Perhaps._ I take Sola's hand and quickly pull her into an alcove with me. The same Sullustan that had come to check up on me is passing down the hall, totally absorbed with his datapad. I wait until he has turned the corner, then check both ways, and keep travelling. _Of course, how am I to know? You might be playing the whole thing as a trick to keep yourself amused while leading me in circles._

_**You've got a sharp mind at times, I must admit. But you're wrong about that. He is indeed real, and still waiting.**_

Somehow, I cannot help a brief grin. He's trying to unnerve me, obviously, but it doesn't seem to be going as well as he'd planned. _I am waiting, as well. I want to meet this planner for myself._

_**I doubt you know what you speak of, little Jedi.**_

I tire of the conversation, ignoring his voice and pressing on through the hall.

"Could you slow down a little?" Sola's whisper comes to me.

I reduce my pace and throw an apologetic glance over my shoulder. I'd almost forgotten about her. That fact surprises me. Perhaps Good Friend occupies more of my attention than I'd thought. Either that, or my concentration is beginning to slip again.

I grit my teeth, determined to stop focusing on negativity. I must keep my mind on what needs to be accomplished at the moment. All I need to do is access an information centre of some kind, that will allow me to pull up a map of this ship and show me where the docking bays and escape pods are.

**_There are none._**

_Ridiculous. Every ship of an adequate size has escape pods of some sort or another. If you're trying to dishearten me, you'd better try another approach._

Sola tugs at my sleeve and whispers, "Jedi Kenobi."

I look over my shoulder to see her pointing at an open door across the hall.

"It looks like a computer station," she adds.

I smile at her, and glance both ways down the corridor before moving into the room, Sola following. It's good to know there are two brains working on this puzzle instead of one; for a fearful former captive, she seems to possess a sharp enough mind, thinking along the same lines as I, and noticing things I might miss over the interruptions of the pestering Zabrak, or even my own thoughts.

We split up inside the empty room, scanning along the rows of computers. I find myself wishing for some sort of droid to be handy that could slice into the information here, but we'll have to make do with what we're offered.

Many of the terminals incessantly scroll off what might as well be gibberish, for all I can see it. The lettering moves so quickly I cannot even tell if it's a language I'm familiar with. I wonder at the point of having a screen when none but droids can read it, and move on to the next terminals.

About three-quarters of the way down the row, I finally reach what looks to be a layout of the ship from the top view, outlined plainly and comprehensively on a much larger two-dimensional screen. _Finally, something made for the biological eye._ I look across the room to where Sola searches her row, and reach out to her mind. As expected, I find some things are similar to her sister's, and others radically different. Though they are unmistakably quite individual in their own respects, the family link aids me in finding my way to communicate with Sola, more quickly than if she had been an unconnected and complete stranger.

[_Sola? Can you hear me?_]

She gives a start, looking about her, at all the machinery and then back at me.

I smile tentatively. [_Sola?_]

"That's you, isn't it?" she whispers.

I nod, hoping the idea doesn't disturb her too much. I hadn't received that impression when I'd mentioned it before, but it never hurts to check again. [_Am I coming through clearly?_]

Her mouth twitches; I can see she's fascinated with the concept. "Yes, very clearly."

[_Good. I believe I've found a map of this ship._]

She hurries around the island row of machinery in the middle of the room to my side, peering at the monitor. "Looks like it. But where would the escape pods be?" she wonders aloud in a voice so quiet it barely reaches my ear unassisted. "I can't see them anywhere."

I can feel the fine hair at the back of my neck prickle, just a bit. [_Neither can I. There must be some, somewhere._] I break the connection for a moment, taking a few deep breaths to ease my slightly strained concentration while I look over the diagram again.

"But they always appear on layouts." Sola's brow pinches. "It's as if this ship has none. But that's ridiculous." She pauses, looking at me. "Isn't it?"

I nod, finding the connection again. [_That's what I thought._] I sigh lightly. [_All right, then—check for a hangar bay of some sort. Perhaps we can commandeer a light craft._]

She stares, and remembers to keep her voice down just in time. "You mean steal one?"

[_It's a risk they made when they took prisoners,_] I tell her. [_Escapes happen. Perhaps not often, but they happen. It's not at all immoral when it's their mistake to begin with._] I imagine I look somewhat mischievous at this point, and try to quench the feeling. I must remain practical, at least, and not overly reckless if this is going to work.

"I guess having a Jedi on board tips the odds a little," she mutters to herself, and jabs one slender finger at a spot on the screen. "What about that?"

I inspect the spot briefly, then allow a hint of a smile to show. [_That looks good._]

* * *

I think over my rough plan as we carry on through the halls. From the layout, I could see where one of the main breakers for the lighting of the hangar bay is. Once we arrive just outside of the bay, I hope to make off with a small fuse, rendering the interior almost completely black, and from there I should be able to use the Force to feel my way to a ship while guiding Sola along. It's risky enough…but I doubt any ship that would have a complete lack of escape pods would be heavily armed in the least and won't easily be able to pick us off as we escape. It might even be a mere weaponless transport we're on. The idea doesn't exactly make sense, either, but more than the thought of a battleship without pods.

I am still very uneasy as we make our way through the various corridors, especially due to the fact that we encounter no one at all, not even an underfoot mouse droid. Sola seems to notice this as well; I can feel her nervousness behind me, continually blossoming in the back of my mind. I must brush it off and give it no opportunity to distract me. It's no time to be fearful, that I know.

Eventually we do come upon a wide entrance that I recognise as the hangar bay's from the readouts we were able to pull up.

"This is it," whispers Sola. "Should I stick with you?"

I pause for a moment, then nod. [_Better that you should be close at hand, in case we're forced to run._]

She nods in assent, and I turn my attention and senses to the covered panel. The metal cover, while tight, is meant to be opened when necessary, and I have little trouble in locating the bolts and quietly popping them with a directed flick of my fingers. I reach out with my hands and gently pull the cover off, putting it down on the floor without so much as a bump while Sola keeps watch. She wouldn't have to, necessarily, but I'm very grateful for the help all the same as I pick through massive tangles and arteries of wiring, switches, and… I find what I'm looking for.

I experience a twinge of dismay when the fuse does not come free. It simply refuses to separate from the wiring, so I take both soldered ends and apply a good amount of strength, snapping it and consequently taking apart the circuit of electricity.

"What if the door doesn't open now?" Sola asks.

I wince inwardly. It's a good question. One that I, unfortunately, did not happen to think of. Hesitantly, I reach out to touch the door panel, hoping it will work, and gesture for Sola to press herself against the wall beside me, out of sight. As she does so, I tap the controls.

To our collective relief, the door does slide open—but the light emanating from within the bay immediately steals it away._  
_

"Why are the lights still on?" Sola whispers worriedly. "I thought you broke the fuse."

[_I did. There must be another separate connection._] I don't add, _I have a very bad feeling about this._

I press myself against the wall, trying to think, and reach out into the bay, wishing to see what sort of sapients are in there at the moment.

It's a mind so elusive I almost miss it, and I would have if there had been any others in the bay. I frown, attempting to surround the mind, as it were, for a better possibility of scrutiny, but it evades my grasp again. I try to box it in once more, and it slips away.

[_There's one in there,_] I send to Sola, [_but I can't seem to sense it clearly._]

"Only one?" She swallows. "Maybe we should run for it, then."

I grab her arm as she begins to move. [_I cannot allow you to do that. I don't know what's in there—_]

"Neither do I," she returns quietly in a surprisingly cool voice. "But I'm going."

Exasperated, I resort to using my eyes as I slowly come around the corner, and I freeze at the same time that I hear Sola's gasp.

"Ah, my boy!" says the Senator, smiling broadly and coming around a yacht. "I'm very pleased you were able to make it here on time."


	8. The Perfidy

The Perfidy

* * *

In… out. In… out. In… out.

Groggy, I wonder how many times it will take for me to wake without the sound of my synthesised breath dominating my hearing.

In… out. In… out.

The monotonous rhythm grows tiresome even to my half-asleep senses, though I seem to be rising from slumber more quickly than usual.

Slumber? When did I fall asleep?

In-in-out. In-out. In-out.

I hear my breathing quicken as my consciousness accelerates through the fog, through darkened mists that swallow sojourners easily, seducing them for the night until such a time that reality must return to senses intoxicated with the simple and necessary pleasure of repose.

Something has happened for me to fall into the embrace without warning.

…Without memory.

One inhalation turns long and loud as I gasp and tighten my stomach, sitting bolt upright and staring through a darkened room. But I find I wasn't fully lying down, merely reclining on a chair whose back was pulled down only a little.

What?

My fists tighten as my eyes dart about, trying to receive and take advantage of any small ray of light that might intercept my senses.

I inhale sharply once again, holding it a moment before releasing the air of my lungs into the complete darkness.

Of course. My senses.

But when I reach down to find my centre, I find it somewhat misplaced.

Odd.

I search with greater scrutiny, but I cannot locate that core of peace within me. In its place runs a different current of life.

I touch the coldness. _This is not life. This is a current of death._

I test the chair, moving my arms and legs and torso, and find I am unrestrained. _Not another exploration. I'm staying right where I am, this time._

Then I remember another. _Sola. What happened to Sola? And Senator Palpatine? They must have been taken, along with me. But by whom? …and how?_

I cannot recall how I fell under unconsciousness' spell. The last thing stored in my memory is Sola's gasp, and Palpatine's welcoming smile.

Strange. How was he expecting us? He had never even met me before.

What I know of the senator of Naboo is limited to files my Master and I went through before undertaking upon our peacekeeping mission.

I hope the Jedi neutralised the situation.

I allow a bitter chuckle to roll through my mind. _Qui-Gon would never forgive them if they destroyed any of the local flora and fauna._

How I wish my Master were here. Though I know my Padawan braid is gone, I reach for its former spot for a touch of reassurance, but my fingers never quite make it all the way behind my ear before they freeze, along with the rest of me.

Slowly, tentatively, they thaw and both of my hands rise to explore this new discovery.

Since when does my hair grow nine or ten centimetres in a single night?

Panic threatens the already convoluted reason within me, and I struggle to suppress it, winding my fingers in my suddenly longer hair and giving it a sharp tug.

I wince. It's real, indeed. The pain also dispels any notion I had of this being a dream.

Slowly, I rise out of the chair. Perhaps if I can find an exit—

Then the lights flood the room, no doubt triggered by my motion. I grimace, closing my eyes for a moment before making them adjust.

Something begins to emit a strident pulsing beep behind me, just loud enough to be annoying. I turn and spot a flashing button on one of the armrests of the chair. Unsure of what exactly might happen, though fairly certain it's a comm unit of some sort, I lean over and hesitantly depress the button. "Yes?"

A cautious but clear subservient voice comes over the speaker, of a girl quite young, judging by what I hear. "I apologise for waking you at this hour, my lord, but there is a message for you that cannot wait." I suppose she interprets my baffled silence as permission to continue. "His Highness sends his wishes for you to begin inspection, as the first shipment is ready now, my lord."

My heart skips a pace. _Who is "his Highness", and what on Kessel is she talking about?_ "Did he say anything else?" I notice, finally, that my mechanical voice sounds somewhat more sonorous than before.

"No, my lord, I'm afraid not." Her tone is puzzled but subdued, in the manner of a servant who knows better than to ask what's going on.

My panic begins to escalate once again, and I swallow hard. "Very well." I release the button, and I collapse in the chair, taking in the room about me.

It is austere in its simplicity, cold, metal, and utilitarian. The chamber of an ultimate pragmatist. One entire wall is a screen that is currently inactive, blank and gray as the rest of the room.

Who does she think I am?

I wonder. _Who _am_ I? _It seems a good question, all of a sudden.

I stand again, and look down at myself, holding my hands up for inspection. The calluses made by lightsaber technique practice are a little harder, thicker than I remember, my hands stronger. I flex my fingers and glance at my clothing.

Black robes. Black boots, black belt, black cape and hood and sleeves. I notice a glint hanging from the belt, and I unclip the unfamiliar handle, holding the weight in my hand a moment before activating the blade.

…Red lightsaber. I am so startled by the fact that I very nearly drop the thing, and quickly extinguish the blade, hooking it back in place.

_What has happened to me while I was out?_

A cold feeling overtakes me, seizing hold inside me in a way the first did not. There is one possibility that would fit, one circumstance that would bring such an icy grip about my throat and mind.

_Perhaps I'm just imagining this, and it's only a dream. Extremely vivid, of course. But it couldn't possibly have happened! Who in the galaxy would have the power to…_

I shudder violently.

_To make a man's will and purpose fall to sleep._

Suddenly my body does not seem enough to contain my swollen mind, and my mind too small to keep my emotions back. The dam bursts in a violent explosion within me, and nor is the room large enough to contain me, I feel; I whirl about on my heels to make for the door in quick strides, wondering if this is the sensation that claustrophobia can bring.

The door has a certain reflective quality to itself—I see the entirety of myself for the first time, and I'm taken aback.

The robes, as I expected, are made in a similar style to the typical Jedi garb, except every square centimetre is completely black. A thought hits me like a block of ferrocrete—they look the same as the Zabrak's did, when he was still alive. I can remember his appearance perfectly, seeing as I sparred with him just a little while ago.

Or was it? How long has it been, exactly, since the engagement took place on the outskirts of Mos Espa? For me, it appropriately feels like little more than a week ago.

I step closer to the door, and make out my face on the surface of the metal. The man that stares back at me is not one I know. Oh, of course it is the same face. But little changes make it entirely different from what it was, paradoxically perhaps. I reach up and touch my hair again, absorbing the change in colour. It used to be…

I frown. I can hardly remember what colour it was, but that hardly matters anymore. Now it is black as night, just like my clothing, the highlights glinting off the strands with lustre. I step even closer to the door, peering into the pair of eyes that are mine and yet not my own. I can remember the colour _they _used to be: somewhere between an ice and sea blue. Through the reflection of this metal I can see no colour from them, but perhaps that is merely the metal interfering with the true colour. I like to think so, of course, but somehow I know that I should know better.

It seems I have been sapped of colour and of a life that has only now begun to return to me. Very strange and difficult, to think of a possible dormancy of my mind, though my brain and body were active.

Or were they? Did someone knock me out, change my clothes, colour my hair and put in disguising contacts before I woke?

I frown. _But to what purpose? The idea is ridiculous. These…_ I touch my face. ___These changes are long-term. I must not mislead myself._

The problem is, the alternate possibility seems no less absurd. How am I going to explain this to the Order?

_…How am I going to_ get back_ to the Order? Surely they've noticed my absence? _I glance back at the chair. It seems an ominously harmless thing. _Well, perhaps I can take comfort in the fact that my life will never be without its conundrums. Which is rather illogical in itself, giving proof to the matter. How lovely._ I sigh wearily and palm open the door. There is someone's life outside I must begin to explore, and I may as well start before I begin to arouse suspicion by staying in the room, rocking back and forth in the chair as the confinements of the room and paranoia of the situation begin to sink their teeth into my sanity.

_Where did_ that_ horrible thought come from? _I grimace as the door slides open. Perhaps I am deluding myself, after all—perhaps my sanity's slipping already. In that case, I decide I shall do what I can to dissuade myself of that opinion as I stride out into the corridor. I am not only wearing someone else's character; I am a walking masquerade, improvising my way down a hall in a ship full of possibly deadly strangers, an explorer encountering a cavern of a carnivorous species discovered for the first time, though with the uncanny feeling that he's known them before. I think it would be easier for me to keep up the act if I was merely one of the unnoticed underfoot lackeys occasionally scurrying about, but from the fearful respect I seem to command, it's rather the opposite.

I suppress another shudder as I advance down the corridor. Every single person I pass by stops in their tracks whether they are pressed for time or not, either inclining their head or saluting stiffly. I give a tight nod to some of the more visibly distinguished ones, ignore the others, and pass on through, wondering what exactly they expect of me. I have an awfully forbidding feeling that I'm going to absorb much of whatever my usual behaviour was the hard way, picking up bits and pieces from the reactions of others. Once I have that worked out, I'll have to see a way out of here and back to where I belong.

The situation seems to worsen as I make an attempt at reaching out to sense the emotions toward me in the general vicinity of each person I pass; I'm given some time to each mind as they come few and far between at this time of the sleep cycle. I can feel the Force to a greater degree of clarity than before, but it still carries those cold undertones. If the Force I knew before pulsed with warm light, now it is darkened, the crimson frequency turning my stomach over.

The dark side. Whoever I am, I have turned.

Somehow (and thankfully, noting my present situation) the thought does not instil as much panic and fear into me as I thought it might. My heart is gripped, wrenched in the knowledge, but I do not flinch, my steps unhesitating, unlike my mind, as they carry me down a path unfamiliar.

In a way I don't understand, I never come to a dilemma at a junction of the hallway. My feet always know where to take me as if they are powered by some hidden asset deep in a part of my brain inaccessible to my conscious self. Perhaps that pocket of memory contains some semblance of who these people are giving their fearful respect to. I very nearly don't want to find those memories, in that case, but I know I'd better, and _soon_, if I want to keep this charade up long enough to salvage whatever situation I've dug myself into.

Therefore I must resort to continuing my sweeps of these people's thoughts of me, whether I feel the coldness or not. Of course it does not ease; for a moment I think I feel it growing when I realise the coldness is the chill of my own perception, from what I'm receiving from these people that unwittingly serve me in a way different than they would ever believe.

The chill is from the name. One name that imprints itself upon my discernment, that brands itself into my eyeless sight within. It is the sole phrase I pick up from their recognition of my face. _Lord Xiian. See, here he comes,_ they think._ We had better acknowledge his presence before—_

I break off the connection and remember just in time to keep my face steeled before the next crew member comes within view. If I would be allowed a little privacy, I don't doubt I might start babbling in confusion and horror. The image of the _or else_ that I see in their minds…it strikes a fatal blow to my already dying hopes that just perhaps I might have maintained some semblance of a good and/or honourable life. Now I see the reason behind the fear in their eyes, and for the intuitive apprehension I'd been carrying all the way down these halls at what I had been up to while my own mind was silent.

Is this what it's like for a hopeful parent to come into contact with their child after years of nothing and find they've been leading a life worse than criminal?

I feel I need to find an empty soundproof room, sealed off from any penetrating eyes, where I can scream out my terrified revulsion and collapse, waiting to die.

I wait for Good Friend to emerge gleefully from his silence and crow "no such luck", or something to that extent. But he does not come. I venture into his place of residence with fearful curiosity, thinking just perhaps…

He is indeed gone, without a trace. I linger in that place, wondering if he's set some sort of trap, but nothing springs upon me. I investigate within a little closer, and notice some signs of… _removal? How odd._ My walk carries on automatically as I poke about inside, feeling about the edges of a ragged wound. _This almost smacks of violent expulsion. Like someone reached down and forcibly ripped him out._ The thought is both appealing and worrisome. _Who would have that sort of power? I was unable to even get close enough to _think_ of going about such a thing._

It's the question my mind keeps returning to, one way or another. _Who?_

My mind returns unbidden to something Good Friend told me while I was restrained upon the bed before my wandering and waking Sola. _The hidden planner, whoever he is, was supposed to be waiting for me at the end of that ride. Has the ride ended? It must have—if the ship has kept going, we'd be far out of the galaxy by now._ A new thought occurs to me. _Where was I on that trip when Sola and I came across Senator Palpatine?_

No, that's ridiculous. A senator wouldn't be—wouldn't have—

I struggle with my thoughts as they wander down a tangent often travelled to no avail, in my mind anyway. I've never trusted politicians, but to suspect one of something like this? It's more than a simple conspiring bureaucrat out to gain a better position on his home planet as well as in the Senate. For the brief time I actually saw the Senator, I was too surprised to gather enough concentration to find his signature in the Force.

But how could a senator hide a power of that kind from the Order for so long? The Senate and the Temple are on the same planet! Surely the Jedi would have noticed some anomalous activity within the Force if he was up to something.

Then I remember the quiet murmurings, the quick but solemn conversations between some Masters that I had observed but made little of. I can recall snatches of words: _Clouded. Unfocused. Restless._

Shrouded.

I had thought, then, that they were talking about their perceptions during missions or something of the sort. Now I know better. _If you must assume anything,_ I tell myself grimly, _assume the worst. Assume that Senator Palpatine is covertly a dark Force-sensitive, and that he's neck-deep in some sort of plot. And of course, assume he is the hidden planner that Good Friend was referring to._ If I follow along that course, some things begin to make sense. Of course it would have been easier for the Zabrak to locate Queen Amidala if her trusted senator was in fact two-faced and directing the Zabrak to her all along. No one except for a Force-user with sufficient information would be able to trace that dark assassin back to the desk of the pseudo-innocent Senator Palpatine. _Hah. He probably doesn't expect anyone ever will, until it's too late…_ But the triumphant feeling quickly fades. _If he had the power to hide his presence so well, was he the one who laid my mind to rest? Did he manipulate me into a shell of servanthood?_

I snap back to reality, out of the mires of wool-gathering, and I realise I didn't take much time at all in the depths of thought and processing information. I search my memory to see how far I've passed through the labyrinthine corridors while my mind was away—only a couple of turns, only three people passed.

And another realisation hits me, with something of a heavier blow. _How did I know it was two turns and three people in approximately one minute? I never would have been able to come out of deep thought with such a solid knowledge of what had gone on in the meantime. Is this fact good or bad? _

I force my attention forward on my surroundings. I feel my destination is close now, whatever that may be. I'm glad, at least, that I've been able to get so much thinking done—or perhaps to have arrived at so many conclusions—in the space of a few minutes' walk. Now all that's left is to actually physically arrive somewhere.

Oddly enough, my footsteps direct me down a hallway I feel is seldom-used, despite (or perhaps because of) its pristine cleanliness. _Strange. I thought I was headed for some centre of activity, not a storage room._ But I try to keep up my faith in the seemingly unswerving confidence of my unconscious mind. It feels very peculiar, almost as if I was trusting the directions to another person entirely. _Not an obscured Good Friend, I hope._ The silent, nearly undetectable instructions have a different feel to them, though, despite that ever-present undercurrent of steely ice. A feel that I know is _me._ That knowledge helps a little, anyway.

Just as I would let go during a difficult kata or while blocking spurts of energy from enemy blasters with my lightsaber, I fully release myself; this time, though, it's not into the Force, but into that other part of me that seems to know so well where I'm going.

It's a side door I stop beside, of course, seeing as there's a noticeable lack of individuality between any and all of the doors down this hall. It's certainly nothing special, which arouses much speculation, possibly more than a distinguished-looking entrance would have. _Why such a plain door? And why this one in particular?_ I hesitantly reach out to palm it open. The panel appears as innocuous as the door—until it commences scanning every detail of my hand as soon as I touch it.

"Identity confirmed," a toned-down, bland computer voice buzzes from beside the panel, and the door shoots open.

Wide-eyed, I step into the room, the door sealing as soon as I've cleared the threshold. No surprise there, noting the security measure I passed. But the room itself demands my attention for now.

The floor about twelve metres square, it's just as coldly functional as the room that's presumably my chamber was, the durasteel walls lending that same practical plainness. In fact, the entire room has no significant features except for the assembly of machinery in the centre. The focus seems to be on the raised platform that's covered with a transparent plaz half-cylinder. I come closer to it and look inside; the inner surface seems to be lined as a bed would, albeit without pillow or blanket.

I frown. _Can't possibly be a bacta chamber, then. But it's obviously made to contain a humanoid of some sort, for some purpose. _My fingernail taps against the plaz closure thoughtfully. I feel a connection to this thing somehow, a vague and distant link. In curiosity and the possibility of finding an answer to the connection, I turn my attention to the computers hooked up to the chamber. One is devoted solely to monitoring vital organs, another brain activity, another for administering nutrition to the subject.

Well, if it's not a healing tank…

I repress a groan. _Not another hibernation compartment. At least this time there's no one to wake. _Wondering if the computers hold more information than mere biological processes, I check over for any likely terminal that might store the information—and more importantly identification—of the hibernation chamber's previous occupants.

I do manage to find a listing—but it's not much of a list, as they go. One single occupant.

I swallow, knowing what the name will be already, but I must see it before me. I bring up the identification, and there it is, hard and undeniable in text.

Xiian.

I was in hibernation, then? Long enough for my hair to reach this length, at any rate. But that doesn't explain the changes within me. That doesn't explain the intuitive map my subconscious seems to carry. Most especially, that doesn't explain the fear in the faces and minds of those crew members and officers.

Could I have been put into hibernation first off, and my mind laid bare before whoever the conspirator is here? Could Good Friend have been quite literally ripped out of his dwelling within me during that time, and something else put in? And then when I awoke…

I grind my teeth. _That still does not explain why I have no memory since seeing Senator Palpatine. There has to be an answer somewhere._ Perhaps the best approach would be to go to Palpatine and see what I can find out. Or perhaps not. _I don't even know what year it is. And if I was put into a proper mode of suspended animation, my metabolism and ageing process could have been slowed enough for me to sleep through a century before emerging._ Suddenly feeling frantic, my hands make a rush for the computer, desperate to know the current date. I have to see it, have to find out how much time has wasted away since my last memory.

Though I wonder if it would have been better for me to never have found out. Oh, it's not nearly a century's difference, but it's long enough. Far too long.

"Thirty-two years," I choke out aloud. "Thirty-two…" Though I hardly look a day over thirty, I'm actually… _fifty-seven?_ I try in vain to think up a curse vile enough, finding nothing suitable in the considerable vocabulary I've picked up over many a mission.

Numbly, my fingers wander over the keypads of the computers, seeking more information, something that might just dispel this sickening revelation. I find I was released from hibernation after twelve years in the chamber. _That's two decades of unaccounted time. And I've aged far less than that. I must have been subjected to some sort of age-delaying technique or hormone or drug in hibernation that kept affecting me after my release. What was I _doing_ those twenty years?_

And why was such a delay put upon me? Someone must value my services. Whatever they may have been. I shiver suddenly despite the room's relative warmth. _I need to find some sort of an information source. A database computer, or a network connection, a library of news holovids. Something._

A fact clicks in the back of my mind, bringing to my attention something mentioned not so long ago. _The girl said something about his Highness wishing for me to inspect a shipment. A shipment of what?_ Not food rations, anyhow, of that I'm sure.

What prompted my return to true consciousness?

I stare into the hibernation chamber, wanting to absorb the secrets it must contain, though the answer to my last question likely lies elsewhere.

I seem to be following an alarming pattern of falling comatose and waking again under somewhat unusual circumstances,

I think dryly, somehow managing to keep a finger on what sense of humour I have left in me. _Hopefully that pattern won't continue in the near future._

But for now, I must keep a wit of a different kind about me, fitted like a permanent cloak. My first order of business? To irrevocably place my life into the sabacc pot and hope desperately for a winning hand. The host of the game? His Highness, who is undoubtedly the former Senator Palpatine.

Whether or not there will be any other players remains to be seen.

* * *

"One-ten and twenty-four."

The bridge bustles with activity while managing to keep a nervous eye on the back of their overseer. One of the young communications lieutenants keeps rattling off coordinates to the squadron engaged in a training exercise.

"Five-sixty and fifteen."

It quickly becomes white noise, a background for my silent thought as I gaze into the cold points of light hanging outside the viewport, my feet standing shoulder-width apart, arms crossed over my ribs.

My viewport, apparently. My bridge, my ship. And no one seems willing in the least to dispute that. I can feel their quiet tension humming in the electric air, feeding disruption into the currents of the Force. To make things worse, it seems they know something is wrong.

Perhaps it was the way their lord walked into the bridge. Perhaps it was the look upon his bleak face. Or perhaps something let go of their will when I awoke and they feel the change, feel the release, yet don't exactly know what it means.

"Two-nineteen and eighty-six."

The starfighters, still in flawless formation, swerve onto a course with professional fluidity that brings them to cruise past the bridge's viewport, across my field of vision. Interesting craft, really. I've overheard the make's name—the TIE fighter. What TIE stands for, I truly have no idea. That matters little, at the moment, seeing as they also are mine.

And this ship that I stand on? It is of immense scale, a full eight kilometres long. I can hardly fathom such a length of metal; upon the event of the front tip ramming a solid object of some sort, I would have time to react and rush out of the bridge to an escape craft of some kind before the shock wave finally reached the aft end. A Star Destroyer, aptly put in the class of _Super._ I've briefly looked over much information since my arrival to the bridge. There are three main classes of Star Destroyers: _Victory, Imperial, _and _Super-_class, the latter of which seems to be few and far between. This, of course, means I'm likely an even more distinguished personage than I'd supposed. _As if I'm a right-hand man._

"Seven-forty-three and sixty-five."

A different voice cuts into my thoughts, places itself above the droning lieutenant. "Lord Xiian?"

I recognise it as the voice of the girl that gave me the message within the room I woke in. I keep my eyes riveted on a single star as I respond. "Yes?"

She comes within my peripheral vision hesitantly; I can feel the fear emanating from her, and also a sort of forced-upon courage. It's likely she's done this sort of thing before, whatever that would have entailed. "My lord, the request for inspection was of some urgency."

I am very glad she is oblivious to my own wavering fear. I turn my head to the side and lock eyes with her—a second later, her face totally drains of colour.

So this is what I have come to. A tyrant ruler of a travelling city and garrison.

I uncross my arms, shifting my stance until I am nearly facing her. She is quite obviously doing everything in her power not to flinch, not to flee. I look her in the face again, gesturing to a spot on the floor barely a metre from me. "Come here."

I thought she had already turned the purest form of white possible. I stand mistaken; she looks as if she belongs among the dead, her hands trembling almost imperceptibly as she forces her way forward. The entire bridge seems to have held its collective breath, waiting for the heavy-handed punishment they think is coming.

Then they are mistaken as well. I furrow my brow, keeping my attention solely focused on the girl. "Tell me," I say to her in a voice pitched for her ears only, "what the word 'honour' means to you."

She wavers, glancing briefly at her crewmates, hardly able to bring her gaze back to my eyes. "My lord?"

"I wish to hear out your opinion on the matter," I tell her firmly, still as quiet as before. "I do not like to think that this ship is powered by mindless automatons. No harm will come to you. What do you think?"

Steeling herself with a suddenness that surprises me, she lifts her eyes to my face, inhaling deeply before answering in a voice as quiet as mine. "I believe, my lord, that honour is dictated out of a respect made from admiration and an honest reverence…and sometimes a willingness for humility."

I pause for a long moment, rolling her words about in my mind before nodding once. "Then you have my honour for presenting to me your truth." A grim smile doesn't quite make it all the way through to my face. "I must keep little honour in your eyes, then, I think?"

The fear still shimmering in her expression is all the answer I need. "You have my respect, my lord."

Closing my eyes for a few seconds, I nod. "Respect can be bought with credits, with lives. Honour? That's something completely different." I let a little of the smile come through, no doubt a thin and humourless one. "Change is a healthy thing, they say. Well. You're sure you heard nothing more about this shipment?"

She hesitates again. "I could be mistaken, my lord, but I was under the impression that it is a new TIE squadron from Sienar Fleet Systems."

"I see." _Actually, I don't see. Not at all. At least that explains vaguely what I should be looking for. But where? _I glance at the ranking upon her uniform, something I'm already able to read with ease. "Very well, Major. Perhaps we will talk again in the future. You may return to your business."

"Yes, my lord." There is no mistaking the twinge of confusion in her voice as she bows and spins about smartly to walk off with a military-rigid posture.

Strange, that someone as high up as I think I am should be assigned to an inspection of just another squadron of starfighters. Which likely means this isn't just another squadron of starfighters. A new edition, perhaps? Or is it something entirely different? Am I being given covert instructions for an important assignment?

I wince inwardly, trying to remind myself that it isn't paranoia when they really are out to get you. _What if the best thing right now would be to ignore the message? What would I have coming for me, in that case? Pain, perhaps, but answers at least._ I grit my teeth. _I suppose I'll have to decide then if it will be worth the price._

Clearly, I cannot wait for a possible return of memory to answer me. There very much seems to be a time limit upon my actions. Perhaps I could take one of the higher-ranking officers into a private room and ask him about myself, then alter his memory of the conversation? There would be little harm done, in that case.

Or possibly I just have a lot of reading to do.

* * *

The room is quiet, but somehow I know it is not destined to remain so for long. The only real noise comes from the muted hum of the machinery and an occasional tapping on my own part as I scroll through information.

"What took you so long?" The voice behind me is male, adult and strong, tainted with a strand of impatience.

I steel myself against showing any surprise. For the presence behind me is vaguely familiar, changed from what it once had been but somehow still the same. I must face him, though, of course, and so I turn around in the chair, keeping my face impassive as I look over to where he stands at the doorway.

Anakin's face has lost far too much of its former innocence of youth. It is hardened, cynical, and cold. Perhaps a little tired. He himself has grown quite tall, though I can't quite gauge it from where I sit. Substantially taller than I am, at any rate, though that comes at no surprise.

Only one word comes to my mouth. "Explain."

His face hardens even more. "It's due more on your part. What exactly is this change I sense?"

I search him carefully, looking for subtleties, nuances of behaviour, anything. And then, then I know it. This man before me is Xiian's right hand.

All I can do is play for time. He might be an enemy as well as a servant. I stand, forgoing the aid of my arms to push me out of my seat, and stare at him levelly. "Perhaps the change has been made in your own perceptions. It changed as you grew physically, emotionally, and mentally. Why should it not change now? Why should a sentient not undergo some growth spurt later in his life?"

I can see the faint undertones of authority I pushed into my voice have been duly noted. His look of defiance has subdued somewhat, but he accuses: "You're not talking about me."

I barely manage to keep the waver out of my voice. "Then you know what has happened here?"

He smiles a little, malice glinting in his eyes. "It's simple enough to understand." Anakin walks toward a viewport set in the wall beside me, staring out into the stars. "The Imperial palace is dissolving into chaos. Something has happened to their leader, and they are beginning to realise the consequences."

"Something has happened to _you,_" I point out quietly.

He shoots a heated glance in my direction, but it quickly disappears. "I am not the issue at hand, my _master. _You are no longer driven by your hate, I can feel. You…" He searches for a fitting word. "You've awoken."

I can feel his silent questions. _Why? How?_

"But," he continues, "I don't think you understood exactly who I was referring to when I said 'leader'. It's not you, master. It's him_._"

"Palpatine," I whisper, mostly to myself, and wonder if I shall come out of this room alive.

Anakin grins, a menacing expression that's toned down only because I'm here. "You don't remember, do you? That's why he's collapsed."

Desperation clutches at my heart. "What do you mean? What's happened?" I feel the helpless rage rising inside, eating away my energy to feed my growing fear. I growl in a voice that startles both of us, "Damn it, Anakin, what's _happened to me?_"

He freezes, his eyes wide with pain of memory and anger at me, at anyone. "That's the only name you remember? Gods below, what did he do to make you like this?" He begins to move away from the viewport, entering into what I instantly recognise as a predator's circle. "Who are you, then?"

A fifty-seven-year-old senior Padawan with uncommon, unknown knowledge and a dark, forgotten past. Sounds like something out of a holodrama.

I refuse to move, staring ahead as he passes by and out of my peripheral vision. "It matters not who I was, only who I am now. Obi-Wan Kenobi."

I can somehow hear his silent mirth as he moves behind me, coming around to my left side and back up front. "What a field day for the media. A reformed Sith master, is that it?" And I can instantly see he regrets the slip of his tongue.

My throat restricts at this. _Sith? But they've been wiped out for over a thousand years…?_ "I trust you'll keep me up to date," I say while my mind scrabbles madly for a foothold.

The man who was Anakin begins to say something, but pauses and looks past the walls for a second before returning his attention to me. "Your presence is required on the bridge," he tells me flatly. "I suggest you keep up your pretences as well as possible, _master._"

I meet his stare levelly. "And for you to support them."

* * *

The alarm throughout the ship is manifest in the thickness of the air. I can feel something has happened to these people's leader. Their eyes shine with fear as they look to me, trying to console themselves that all is not lost, that there is still a strong leader among them.

They truly don't know of their mistake. I am not what they're looking for, not anymore. And somehow…I suspect the "collapse" of Palpatine, as Anakin put it, is closely tied with my awakening.

My head spins with knowledge as well as the lack of it thereof. _If only Qui-Gon had been able to sell that podracer a few minutes earlier, perhaps none of this would have happened. Such a little thing for results of such magnitude._

An admiral steps up to me. He has a slightly sallow face, beetled brows, an aquiline nose. I search vainly within my memory for any inkling of his name, but of course I do not find it. He's as nameless as the near-complete majority of this crew. "My lord, we have disturbing news from Imperial Center."

"Then relay it," I tell him as he takes up stride beside me while I walk to the bridge's viewport. _Imperial Center? The heart of the Empire, obviously. And if there is anywhere that a new government would want to take root, it is Coruscant._

He hesitates noticeably before speaking. "There appears to be some concern over the Emperor's current, er, state of health, my lord. According to the medical staff at the palace, he seems to have collapsed into a comatose state without warning."

I digest this news carefully as we reach the viewport, then look directly at the admiral. "Collapsed without warning, you say."

He flushes, almost imperceptibly. "According to the report, yes."

My heart takes up its pounding cadence again. "I see," I say carefully. What now would be my best course of action? To take myself to Coruscant, or Imperial Center as it is now, would be something akin to suicide if I would fail to conduct myself appropriately. However, maybe Anakin is willing to assist this masquerade.

"Await further orders," I instruct this admiral. "They shouldn't be long in coming."

He nods smartly. "Yes, my lord."

Another man then walks up to us, his face nearly the complete opposite of the admiral's, his eyes glimmering in fear and uncertainty. First he salutes me stiffly, then addresses us both. "Lord Xiian, Admiral Rhenth, there is an update on the report."

I am glad, at least, that I have a name now for my subordinate. The admiral raises his brows slightly in response. "What is it, Captain?"

The captain swallows, looks at me for as long as his fear will allow. "His Royal Highness is dead, milord."

A sharp intake of air from Admiral Rhenth. "This has been confirmed?"

The captain nods numbly, and looks to me again, as does the admiral.

I clench my jaw, and turn to look out the viewport, hands clasped at the small of my back. _What now? Who is my superior? Who will gain the throne? What have I to contend with?_

As I turn back to the two officers, my worst fear is confirmed as the last three questions are answered for me by the look in their eyes: Me, myself, and I.

* * *

THE SHADOW OF THAT HYDDEOUS STRENGTH

SAX MYLE AND MORE IT IS OF LENGTH.

— _Reference to the Tower of Babel in _Ane Dialog _by Sir David Lyndsay_


	9. Mekothemia

Mekothemia and Confessions of a Sith

* * *

My mind whirls, refusing to allow me sleep. I've returned to the chair in which I awoke; perhaps that was my mistake. Perhaps this is a chair of waking. After all, for men to know their leader sleeps in a chair? It speaks of a never-sleeping awareness, of an omniscience of sorts that they will imagine long enough for fear to become rooted in them. They will think: _If I do this, even while he is locked away in his chambers during the sleep cycle, he will _know! _It will be the death of me._

I cannot help snorting. What an illusion! What a thing to think, that one such as myself who is obviously human could be elevated to a god's position, simply because he sleeps in a chair.

A moot point. I can't sleep. Besides, such a fearful reverence would have to be reinforced by my behaviour during my waking hours. It seems those hours will never end.

I close my eyes again, running through endless little techniques to calm the mind and body. None of them do any good. Not the ones suggested to me by my teachers, not the ones my peers and I supposed would work, given a little practice. Not even counting Askajian lambs running across a salt flat in a calm desert evening helps me any.

Desert. Why does it keep coming back to me?

I found before I had awoke, my flagship had been headed—where else?—to the system of Tatooine. I silently inquired within the minds of the bridge crew, but they were all oblivious to my intentions there. From what I've gathered, that seems to have been Xiian's wont, to keep purposes within as long as possible. _Why? Does my crew like surprises?_

I sink farther back into the comfortless chair, opening my eyes to stare at the ceiling, hidden to me by the complete absence of light. I ordered the crew to redirect this ship to Coruscant—"Imperial Center", I said, the name foreign within my mouth—claiming that my attention toward Tatooine had been rendered obsolete now because of the Emperor's sudden death.

What a blatantly wistful lie.

I grit my teeth. _Perhaps it would have been truth in other circumstances, but Tatooine will never be out of my thoughts completely, will always a part of me._ My fingers trace the edges of the device implanted in my throat. _There might still be a grain or two of sand hidden in the tissue there, somewhere.  
_

Tatooine and Coruscant. It is these two worlds which have made me, and will break me. Have they wove me into what I am for a reason and purpose, or am I a collaboration of mere chance, created from a cruel randomness of this galaxy that thrives upon chaos?

Chaos.

I roll the word about in my mind. _What a fascinating word, in both sound and meaning. Mêlée. Pandemonium. Order is such a flat, linear word in comparison. Yet balance fits into both opposites, somehow. Can I?_

I grimace. My lines of thought do nothing to calm my mind into the rest I require. I wonder if I should simply let them rampage on until they have run out of fuel. Perhaps then I will find this elusive sleep.

My breathing slows and evens out under my command in a parody of sleep, almost perfectly silent now that I've rotated the vox-membrane away.

Patterns. Does the key lie there? Even the galaxy's natural state of disorder uses patterns, no matter how complex.

There is a sound. Barely perceptible, but it is there. Without making any noise of my own, keeping the rhythm of my breath, I slowly depress one of the buttons available to me on the armrest, and rise to a standing position with excruciating care, my danger sense whirling about within my head. The button will now keep the lights from flooding on upon any motion on my part, or the other's. Slowly, slowly I make my way around the chair. My would-be assassin is near the wall, I sense.

I smile grimly, and rotate the membrane, speaking the moment it is within place. "So you really think you could emerge unscathed of weapon or blame, then?"

I can feel his anger and frustration as I hear him stand. No longer does he bother hiding away his Force-signature.

"I would have thought you'd be able to sense when I actually fell asleep," I add.

"You would have known, if I'd have reached out like that," his flat voice retorts, and I hear a muffled _click_ from about waist height in his area.

I finger my own lightsaber, unsure if he will bring his weapon back into his hand. "Are you still going to try it?"

"I'm no fool. I know how you are with your blade."

I cannot help being somewhat amused. "Do you really? What is this illusion I've never had a part in, Anakin?"

"The man you refer to is no longer a part of me." His voice turns low, grating.

I shake my head, a useless gesture in the complete dark. "Then are you a part of a new illusion? Or am I creating one for myself?"

His anger grows. "No one calls me by any name other than Vader."

"Then this new reality also contains a new name." I turn, and run my hands along the chair, feeling for the button that will bring light to this room. I close my eyes as they come on, and with the room awash in white I will finally see the man I knew as a boy, lately as a question mark, and now as a killer.

Our eyes don't take long to adjust. Once he knows I see him, he meets my gaze levelly. "There's more of your old self leaking back into you every second. I still see the traces of Xiian in you."

"With any luck, then, you won't have to explain my own past to me." The trouble is, I can indeed feel a foreigner's presence within my mind. It's not anything like Good Friend, simply a different _me._ I have changed, and just now changed back. But not completely.

I draw my mouth into a straight line. "What do you think I could do to regain these lost memories, if they refuse to come on their own volition?"

"Consult the databanks," he says harshly. "I'm not a storyteller."

I shake my head as I wander to the opposite side of the chair. "The media inevitably distorts. Historians make errors."

"Why should I be any better?"

"Because you knew me," I press.

He averts his eyes, quite adamant in withholding his secrets. "I have nothing to gain from it."

"Then tell me at least what we were doing, heading to Tatooine."

He meets my eyes again. "No one knew for certain. You were quite the one for keeping your purposes to yourself, you know. But, from what snippets of rumours I heard, it was something about intercepting a Rebel operation."

I lift an eyebrow. "Rebel?"

"There will always be a group centred around dissension in every government, no matter the type. You know that."

"Of course. But are these rebels organised reasonably?"

The stare he gives me might well be classified as a shrug. "It matters not. Their group is small and scattered. Weak. And once it grows to a noticeable size, its factions will be all the more easily discovered and uprooted by Imperial forces. To be frank, they don't stand a chance."

"Have any important dignitaries gone over?" I ask quietly.

"There have been a few senators. Mon Mothma of Chandrila narrowly escaped execution on the grounds of treason, and there is reason to suspect Bail Organa of Alderaan. But who is to tell?" he mocks. "You? I think not. In truth, you're now a younger man than I."

"Without Xiian," I remind him.

He shakes his head once, and his eyes harden. "Such a small difference. By rights, I should be _your_ master."

I chortle. "What do you think you could teach me? I don't doubt there are some things, but oh, Anakin, you rational dunce. You forget to look farther than knowledge itself!"

"Farther?" His eyes kindle in the consuming flames of blue rage once again, caught up in his Vader-self. "There is no farther! Strange as it seems, there are limits to infinity—"

"But only in us," I tell him. "Those limits are our own creations. We ourselves are finite beings, trapped in a galaxy that is moved forward in a straight line by one dimension it possesses. And yet time moves in a circle, no matter how vast. Can't you feel that, Anakin? While we may not know, we may yet _feel._"

He pauses, the rage draining, his eyes clearing as he stares at me with a curiously sombre expression. "You aren't what I thought you were. You're not Obi-Wan, you're not Xiian. You're something else entirely, made by both. Aren't you?"

I stare back at him, for a long time. He teaches me while I teach him. _So if what he says is true—and I feel it must be—what and who exactly am I?_

I can tackle that at a later time. "Tell me more about this rebellion."

Anakin—yes, it's indeed Anakin, I think—clears his throat. But Vader speaks. "They call themselves the Rebel Alliance. It's mainly an organisation of some separate resistance cells on various planets, and their go-betweens: seceded politicians and the like. They've formed a semblance of an army; some of their soldiers come directly out of the Imperial academy, it's said. On occasion they'll hire mercenary bands, but their funds don't run high enough to allow for this very frequently." He shakes his head. "The Rebellion does cause a certain amount of damage, and it would be a relief of sorts to annihilate them completely."

"And what," I ask, "is their professed reason to rebel?"

"Tyranny." The word that comes from his mouth is a flat thing, spat out.

"Of course." I sit in the chair and mutter again, "Of course. The Imperials wonder why these Rebels enjoy squirming in the iron grip of the Emperor." I smile, the movement feeling humourless. "They don't understand that mainly, rebellions are on the outside, hammering on the fist itself and trying to make it let go of what they think belongs to someone else, especially if a part of the rebellion is still within the fist. Only a _part_ of it, though, is ever inside." Under my command, the chair turns around and I face him again, raising my eyebrows. "You see? The difficulty of the situation is that the Empire cannot seem to bring them all back inside without letting go of everything else, even if just for a moment. What sort of choices does it have? There must be a compromise, one way or another. If this faction is exterminated, another will occur. Haven't you ever heard the story of the fenix, Anakin? The creature that arises from its own ashes."

"I'm aware of that old legend," he says, clearly irritated. "Whether it may be an appropriate analogy under some circumstances or not is irrelevant. The point is, you're going to have to do something about this Rebel Alliance before the populace begins to wonder. It may already be too late."

"Possibly," I agree. "Which brings me to the question of the Emperor. What, exactly, do you think happened? Just give me facts and your conclusions on them."

He pauses for a long moment, as if to collect his thoughts and memories into a presentable bundle. "Very well."

* * *

The light is all he knows. Blinding light, penetrating through his skin. It feels to him like harsh radiation, a light of darkness if there could be such a thing. He would cry out in pain, except for the unavoidable fact that he cannot. And this time, the fact has nothing to do with the presence or absence of vocal chords. This time, all semblance of control has fled from his body. He is a spectator within himself as something else intrudes on the last day of his twelve-year-long sleep.

He can't remember entering the hibernation chamber. The part of his mind able to recall memory is silent; something else that is part of him is awake, but only that part, and all it can do is observe. Perhaps it is a blessing that this part cannot take notes and make him remember. Or perhaps it is a curse.

Despite the fact he is, for all purposes, completely unconscious, Good Friend cannot rise up and seize his hibernating body, to claim it for his own. He's also trapped like an animal within someone else's persona, a foothold he made himself but now begins to curse it, raging against the mental chains that hold him back.

The intruder finally notices, recognises Good Friend in a moment of startlement, then offers him a suggestion: _I'll bring him out of hibernation, and you can take him and become my apprentice once again._

Good Friend still rages. What is this intruder to give him such a bold offer? He can remember what he once was, at the beginning of a war that had burned on far past his own death at the hands of this boy he occupies. He could have defeated his Sith master if Kenobi hadn't shot him down. No—Good Friend has already discovered the sweetness of one revenge, as ensnaring as it might be. Now he wishes to savour another in his addiction.

The intruder tries to pull away as he sees the dangerous madness that has taken hold of his former apprentice, but Good Friend has a tenacious grip. Now all three are held inside this sleeping Padawan: unconscious Obi-Wan, the parasite being once known as Darth Maul, and Darth Sidious, his quest gone astray.

Sidious attempts to pull out. He can remember flaws in Maul's mental attacks, and searches for them in a precise and methodical manner, probing every iota that makes up the fist that holds him in.

He finds one. One flaw is all he needs, and they both know it.

Maul's demented, raving voice echoes inside them in an inane babble. **_You can't pull me out, I'm too valuable, you'll kill him and ruin your plans, you don't know what a mistake you're making, I can…_**

Then it's done. Would it have been performed in the physical realm, one might have heard a loud ripping noise, but Sidious manages it with all the true silence of a master.

There is a large, raw wound where Good Friend had taken root, enough evidence that Maul has disappeared forever, cursed to wander in absolute nothingness.

But Sidious finds there is one small problem that has arisen. He sticks to that wound. He tries to withdraw, tries desperately, but without success. One tiny thread of his existence has adhered to the bloody surface, and he can do nothing with it.

Then comes another problem. Nothing so violent within a person's mind, especially not a Force-sensitive, will go about unnoticed even while the body is under the influence of tranquillising drugs. Obi-Wan's mind awakes in a confused and agonised swirl.

Sidious recognises the new danger and pulls with all the considerable strength he has. Perhaps it is Fate that holds the thread to the wound.

The pull aggravates the spot. Obi-Wan, in a certain state of delirium, goes to investigate, finds this thread that causes him the terrifying pain. He seizes it, and begins to pull back.

Sidious has no means to brace himself. He can only pull, but it's not quite enough. The boy's grip grows stronger with each passing second as he inexorably reels more of the thread in, becoming relentless in his accelerating work.

It doesn't take long. The thread eventually reaches its end, and Sidious is jerked into the very grip he can no longer avoid.

* * *

I stare at Anakin in horror. "You mean to say I controlled him?"

He shakes his head. "It's my only conclusion that fits. When you came out of hibernation as Xiian, he was your puppet, and when you finally awoke from being Xiian, you lost the control because you no longer knew of it, and he died."

The explanation makes sense. I wish it weren't so, but it does. It explains the absence of Good Friend, and…

I sit up and look at him sharply, remembering suddenly. "How did you know about Good Friend?"

"I took the liberty of probing lightly in the early twelfth year of your hibernation, a few months before Palpatine meddled with what he shouldn't have," he explains. "I found something that was awake in you, something that wasn't you, that shouldn't have been there." His eyes grow hard. "The same thing nearly happened to me, except I didn't try to extract him. Perhaps that was why I was able to escape intact, and Palpatine couldn't. But that makes little difference now. The point is, Maul is gone, Palpatine is dead, and you're going to have to figure out how to keep the Empire from falling apart."

I rub at one of my wrists thoughtfully. "You tried to assassinate me. Do you think you could do a better job of being Emperor than I?"

"You lack a basic knowledge of this Empire," he points out. "Regardless, I don't believe I want to kill you any longer."

"Why not?" I ask flatly. "Surely it would be easy enough to frame a scapegoat. Surely the gain would far outweigh the risks."

"What sort of power would I gain from sitting upon a throne?" he counters. "It simply is not what I want for myself." He slowly begins to walk across the room, my eyes following him every step of the way. "I've discovered power to be a slippery concept. You made me Sith in all but official name after you took over Palpatine, and yet I found titles to be a tiresome collection of words. You're familiar with the idea of meaningless syllables, I know. We both can realise nothing is to be gained from these additional names except a handful of extra privileges." He turns to begin walking back. "But privileges can be gained without names, without fearful recognition." His smile is cold. "That is the concept of what it is to be Sith, am I not correct? I may have wished to be Emperor once. Now I would much rather remain a faceless shadow. Fame, or infamy, is not something I find I need. Others feed upon their reputation and think it makes them strong. I wish to pass nameless."

"Then you would instil nameless dread in the Empire's collective mind," I tell him. "That is a sort of infamy in itself, although the populace would not know who they fear. So you wish to disappear?"

He nods grimly. "That is the ultimate freedom. With reputation comes restriction, with public stature, tiresome responsibilities. If I will truly belong to myself, then none other shall know me."

His idea is a curious one, intriguing, though possessing a certain senselessness in my eyes. "So what will you do with yourself in this freedom?"

"Everything and nothing." He smiles again, more fearfully this time. "You've taught me many things, things I might not have learned in other circumstances. I've discovered many meanings of things, and many things that have a lack of meaning. I think that is possibly what's driving me away from the restrictions of society. I will find myself, and I may return in the years to come."

"You've arrived at an interesting decision." I stare at him for a moment more. "Then perhaps you should be gone from here, though I might come to miss these fascinating ideas you've expanded upon."

His smile almost turns merry for the barest second. "I doubt you'll need assistance with your governing. Force knows you've probably learned enough from playing marionette for the past twenty years." And with that, he turns about and leaves the room, leaves me to my own company.

The door holds my gaze long after he's passed through it, long after it's shut. I don't focus upon the door; I focus on the world behind it, the world of my inheritance by some freakish design.

_Very well,_ I think._ If this is my inheritance, then I shall claim it. Perhaps it's not too late to mend what has gone awry. The Imperial throne would likely be one of the best places to oversee a mending of this galaxy._ I get out of the chair to head back to the database computer. _First to learn as much as possible about the last thirty-seven years. Then to arrive at Coruscant and take on the leadership of this Empire. And then…_

I walk through the door into this world that will soon have me at its head.

_...This Rebel Alliance deserves some personal investigation._


	10. Remnant of None

Breathes there the man, with soul so dead

Who never to himself hath said

This is my own, my native land?

Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned

As home his footsteps he hath turned

From wandering on a foreign strand?

If such there breathe, go, mark him well;

For him no minstrel raptures swell;

High though his titles, proud his name,

Boundless his wealth as wish can claim—

Despite those titles, power, and pelf,

The wretch, concentered all in self,

Living, shall forfeit far renown,

And, doubly dying, shall go down

To the vile dust from whence he sprung,

Unwept, unhonoured, and unsung.

— My Native Land_ by Sir Walter Scott_

* * *

Remnant of None

* * *

Aglow.

The city of cities is aglow. The people are aglow. Even the very stars seem to have been lent a voice louder than usual.

But I am silent.

This is the hour in which all sapients with some sort of idea of sanity or rhythm of life lay themselves to rest for the next day. There are many, however, who forsake that idea tonight, taking the occasion as a marvellous excuse for wanton inebriation.

I stare out, through the pane of near-impenetrable transparisteel, to the buildings, lights, and noises of revelry beyond. No, I am awake for different reasons. My mind is sober, alert.

Confused and heavy.

The chair I stand beside is not the discomforting seat of waking that was in my flagship when I was but a lord. This chair is furnished lavishly, just as everything else, so soft one could lose himself in it forever.

That seems too good an idea to be true. Likely because it is.

I sigh and turn to sink into it anyway. This room houses not only me and the chair, but dozens of the many trifles bestowed upon me by the thousands of worlds within this Empire. Each one gave what they could to this wretch sinking into a ridiculously soft chair.

I struggle to gain some sort of posture, shifting my position until I am seated upon the very edge, the only reasonably firm part of the thing. _Is that the idea? To give a new emperor such a comfortable chair that he loses himself in it for all eternity and someone else, preferably the chair-giver, takes on the throne?_

My mind runs around, smashing through too many trivial concepts. I shake my head. Perhaps all I need is a cup of hot caf. But if I ask for one, the servers will go into a fuss, making one as quickly as possible, presenting it upon an embossed silver tray in an embellished golden mug while a dozen others swarm about with embroidered napkins and whatever else at the ready, and while they think this is ridiculous they believe the Emperor might think otherwise, and so to keep their station as well as their lives—

I hammer my fist down upon the end of the armrest in frustration, startling an ungainly squawk from one of my presents.

_What…?_

I let my eyes wander over them until they arrive at a simple, elegant cage, and within it perches a small bird of prey, ceaselessly watching me with one of the penetrating bronze eyes.

I get up, walk closer to the caged animal, and crouch beside the table it rests upon. _Trapped within finery and out of your natural settings, yes?_ I reach out, find the little door's clasp and swing it open, bringing my hand into the cage centimetre by centimetre. The birdhawk eyes my hand, then suddenly hops upon it once it's close enough. I bring the creature out of the cage and stand, holding her up not far from my head. _All I can do is bring you out of the cage. You wouldn't last a week on this world, tame as you are._

She spreads out one wing after the other, shifting her weight to one leg while moving the other underneath the spread wing. The talons, while small, are sharp and draw tiny beads of blood from my skin as it leans. I sigh and move the bird to my shoulder, draped in a plain but thick woollen robe I chose from the closet, a welcome piece of clothing to contrast all the detestable gaudiness. "You, my friend, are a harbinger of both doom and freedom," I say quietly, my voice drawing the hawk's attention. She ruffles her mottled feathers, and seems to listen attentively.

I pace the room and its thick carpet slowly until I reach the transparisteel window once again, and this time I look at my reflection and the bird upon my shoulder. "I wonder if your breeders ever heard the myth of Harat. It's Alderaanian, you know, just as yourself," I add, somehow not feeling silly in the least for addressing a simple hawk. "Harat, the spirit that is the company and occasionally the solace of the damned."

Harat leans forward, digging her front talons into the thick robe, testing the odd surface.

"You know, Harat, this was the night of my coronation. The celebration is scheduled to continue for the next week. Why do the people take so much delight in crowning and reverencing a complete stranger?"

The sharply streamlined head bows to investigate and nibble at a particularly interesting hem.

"I suppose I'm creating a different ear, aren't I? You are to replace any erstwhile listeners I might have once had. You'll be a better keeper of secrets, at any rate. Or perhaps I'm simply going mad from it all. But that's not such an awful thing, is it?" I ask her, turning my head to gaze straight into that eye, so close I cannot focus upon it. There is a wildness in that eye, despite the several years she must have been in training. There is a purpose and knowledge of being, an unconscious wisdom and ferocity.

"Are you to be my guide through the lands of the dead?" I ask to a quietly savage mind that will offer no answer. "Or did the Organas present you as a cleverly hidden suggestion? Small, tame, but ready and willing to kill?" I lower my voice to a whisper, turning my stare back through the window. "Then you will be with me at all hours, even while I deliver my proposal to them."

Upon one shoulder rests an Empire, and upon the other, a hawk. Yet somehow I do not feel out of balance.

* * *

Now I can escape.

There is a passage out of that terrifyingly opulent room that is hidden from the casual observer, but one I discovered nevertheless. A thin passageway between the walls, comprised mainly of dusty stairs and passageways. The lighting still functions, and I meander down its steps, having shed the woollen robe for the drab tunic and trousers beneath. Harat still perches on my left shoulder, unfazed by the tight spaces. Seldom have I heard of a bird unaffected by claustrophobia, though I wonder if she truly is the house pet she seems to be.

Tonight we travel together, for I am determined to find once again the site of the Jedi Temple.

I walk for the better part of an hour before reaching the very base of the passage. There are many doors along the way, but I was curious to see exactly how long it would go. This far down, I should be able to travel nearly unnoticed. I'm surprised Palpatine never put a turbolift between the walls; he was getting on in age and must have rarely if ever needed to come down this way.

Harat shifts to one leg, leaning away from me and toward the wall on that side, eyeing it.

"What are you up to?" I ask.

Her head swivels smoothly, the right eye focusing on me, and her hooked beak opens slightly to emit a shrill whistle.

I look down the point of her aquiline head and see a door there. A chill grips my spine. "There?"

She turns her attention to my hair, delicately picking at a strand with her beak and seeming to pay no attention to what I do next.

I sigh. Perhaps I am going mad. But what of it? I'm alone, and there's no one present to account for my folly. I take the remainder of this flight of steps down to that small platform. The stairs continue past it, but only for one more flight.

"We've nearly reached the bottom," I whisper.

Harat tugs gently at the single hair clenched in her beak.

"Very well." I slide open the lock of the door, swinging the old-fashioned thing open. "I hope we'll be able to get back in."

Only now do I give any thought to the possibility that Harat might seize the chance at her freedom and soar off my shoulder into the busy sky. But she remains where she perches and blinks lazily, leaning forward to look into my face.

Do you hold more secrets than I?

I wonder silently, and switch off my voice. The noise of my breath is something I will be able to do without, especially in these mid- to under-levels of Coruscant. I speculate, also, if the dwellers of these netherlands will recognise my face.

This level, while not the dirtiest, is dark and sullied enough to suit my purposes. I slip out the door, closing it quietly and opening it once experimentally with one of the palace's security codes, just to be sure I'll be able to get back in upon my return. The dimly glowing keypad is connected to the silly old deadbolt within the structure of the door, and I remember the appropriate code well enough.

Satisfied, my hand leaves the keypad and shuts the door once again. I breathe deep in the air. My air. My skywalk. My buildings, my sky, my planet.

Or so the emperor mindset within me believes.

_Reform,_ I think to Harat without actually sending it as I wander into the shadows, senses on high alert. _That's what this government needs. And now that I'm the Emperor… Although, it might be more difficult than it seems._

She trills a surprisingly flute-like, pleasant warble, and shuffles a little to a more comfortable and stable position as I walk on.

Even though I am the head of this Empire, are there hidden rulers? Bribery could even play a large factor in who is the real power here. But I must do my best to reinstate a democracy, a republic of some sort. I owe that much to the Order.

The Jedi Order. Now that is a place I wish to return to, more than anything else. _But Anakin said it no longer exists._

I shake my head. _I am a part of that Order. Therefore, even if I'm the only one left, it still exists within me._

_Though they think me a Sith._

Harat looks me in the face again, and I imagine I see a note of sympathy dancing in her savage bronze eye.

I return her gaze, stopping in my tracks for just a moment. _It's time to revisit the Temple, Harat. Even if all that's left is the shattered foundation._

That is the point in which we truly begin our journey into the depths of Coruscant.

Turbolifts, stairs, spiralling walkways, hairpin turns. Skywalks, bridges, air-ferries. And no one notices my passage. I've become exceedingly good at hiding myself.

I reach up to stroke Harat's wing while we plummet within one of the turbolifts. She croons and picks at another strand of my hair.

I think we've reached an understanding.

I purse my lips thoughtfully, and consider another experiment. One that will, no doubt, turn out to be fruitless, but interesting to conduct nonetheless.

Probing the space about me, I discover Harat's Force-signature. For animals, of course, the identity is more nondescript, but it's a bright pinpoint I can detect easily. I brush it lightly.

Harat continues to nibble at a strand of hair, unprovoked.

I probe into it, finding her instinctual yet trained mind running steadily in the background, and step into the current. _Harat._

She pauses, and crooks her head to look into my eyes again.

_Harat? Blink._

Harat blinks.

_Speak._

A piercing cry shoots from her throat.

I smile in amazement, wondering just how much she's able to comprehend. _Touch my face._

She brings her head close, nudging my cheek with her wickedly curved beak and starting to croon again.

I can hardly believe my success. Undoubtedly she was trained to obey some spoken commands, but I can communicate to her in more than words, in a way her non-sentient mind is able to understand.

The turbolift comes to a gradual halt, the doors hissing open at the desired level, which is far down indeed.

I exit it, peering curiously into the isolated murk while Harat shifts her weight anxiously. _All right, Harat,_ I think, _we're close now to the Temple's location._

"Closer than you think, and still farther."

I start at the unexpected voice, and Harat squawks in surprise, flapping her wings several times to regain her balance at my unexpected movement.

Slowly bringing my hand up to my throat, I switch on my voice. It's a surprise to me that I can't sense the presence of whoever uttered those words. It was a young voice, male and likely humanoid. Close by. "Show yourself."

He does, stepping out of the shadow that hides him into a ray of light cast through an air shaft stories above us. The face that shows under the brown, unruly mop of hair is haggard, looking too emaciated for such a young voice. The eyes glare at me from shadowed pits. Overall, he seems wraith-like, as if he took a long break from existence and only now decided to return. "What are _you_ doing here?"

Affecting just a hint of imperious posture, I advance cautiously. "I'm looking for something. You shouldn't be asking questions."

"He's right, you know," drawls a familiar voice behind me.

I spin about, and the shock nearly takes my breath away.

She grins at me, the same sinister expression I'd seen in the hut all those years ago, and the lone canine tooth is still missing. Then her eyes flick to the youth, and she speaks to him: "Why are you still hanging around here? You should be coming with me."

He shakes his head. "I don't want to. I don't believe in that."

I feel frozen, stuck in the middle of their conflict, and take a step backwards, out of their way. Harat warbles low in her throat, eyeing the woman. I'm surprised the birdhawk can see her at all, noting the general characteristics of visions.

The woman's smile turns to a disarming expression as she approaches me. "Come now. Surely you remember."

"I remember you all too clearly," I state resolutely.

The smile remains. "Good. I thought you might." I feel the heat of anger rising as she reaches out and strokes the side of my face. "Still a child, after all these years. Still so…" Her eyes flash maliciously. "…malleable."

I flinch away. "I didn't—"

"Stop making excuses," the youth snaps at me. "You're a traitor still, same as she is."

The woman rears up angrily. "I'm your mother—"

"You're a liar!"

Then I realise belatedly that this seemingly impetuous youth used to be the baby clutched within her arms, the infant wailing at the murder of the grandparent, the toddler fleeing down the hall from the spite directed at him by Good Friend. Though, surprisingly enough, he's still a youth and not a grown man as the years that have passed would dictate. But then, is it really that much of a surprise, considering the nature of visions? Perhaps it has a significance I've missed. "What's your name?" I ask, on an impulse.

He stares at me in surprise. "I don't have one yet."

I turn and face the woman. "And what's yours?"

She smiles. "It's the same as Good Friend's, the same as dear Anakin's, the same as old Palpatine's, the same as yours."

By the feeling beneath my skin I know my face has drained of all colour. Harat pecks my cheek questioningly as I reply: "I'm not Sith."

"Remember what your old Master once told you?" she mocks in a sing-song tone. "'Once a Padawan, always a Padawan.' There's an application for that turn of phrase in other areas, you see. Come now, it's the principle of the thing. No one cares what your _individual_ name is. Not anymore."

"I am not Sith," I repeat stubbornly. "I belong to the Jedi Order."

"And," she sighs, "you're the Emperor of all the known galaxy. But that doesn't help to keep you from being a oafish idiot, when you want to. Remember what Good Friend told you all those years ago? He was right about there being only two choices. Turn, or die. Guess which one _you_ picked." She sounds smug, like a little girl taunting her classmate.

I back away from her, my breath catching.

"Leave him alone," the youth shouts at her. "He's suffered enough at your hands. There's nothing you can teach him."

"And you can?" she shoots back.

As I lock eyes with the youth, I am turned once again into a mere Padawan before him, far from the fifty-seven year-old Emperor the public supposes me to be. "Show me, then," I tell him.

He hesitates for a moment, then nods, turning once more to glare at the woman as if to declare to her her failure.

A rattling growl, not unlike that of a sabercat, escapes from her throat before she slinks off into the shadows.

I resolutely walk toward the youth. "What do you have to teach me?"

He turns around, and motions for me to follow him.

We pass between buildings, through stinking alleys, past bodies in all stages of decomposition, farther still than I'd thought of travelling.

I spare a glance at Harat while we walk. Her feathers are flattened against her body, her eyes darting warily about. I send soothing thoughts to her, but it takes time before she begins to absorb what comfort I have to offer, and relaxes somewhat, her feathers puffing out again.

The youth walks with a gait nearly gliding in motion, a certainty to his posture, a hand at his belt. I discover an object clasped there that I'd missed before: a lightsaber, though it seems incomplete. Half the casing is missing and I catch a look at the interior when it swings into view; the crystal casing is empty.

Interesting.

And I follow on.

His path is relatively straight, taking turns and curves only when it has to in order to continue. Then, just when it feels as if we've nearly walked to the other side of Coruscant, he stops, and stands perfectly still for a moment.

Curious, I come up close behind him, waiting for a signal of any kind.

Abruptly he starts forward again, and points to the wall before us. "Cut through that."

I withdraw my lightsaber from my belt, snapping the crimson blade on and sinking it into the durasteel. It makes very slow progress; the metal is thick and nearly unyielding. I've never heard of a building needing such a reinforced wall as this…and thoughts of what might be behind it scurry through my mind.

Harat croaks, shifting her head to peer at the youth before returning her gaze to watch my actions.

Five entire minutes pass, certainly long enough for a lightsaber to cut a simple hole into a wall. Presumably this is very dense material. I extinguish my blade without flourish, wiping the sweat off my forehead before looking to the youth.

Ignoring the still red-hot edges, he ducks into the dark interior.

_This,_ I think, _is proving to be a most interesting night. _And I follow him in, Harat shifting uneasily at the sudden vacancy of light and looking longingly back toward the hole, while remaining faithfully on my shoulder despite it all.

Before I've gone far into the black depths of the building, he arrests my progress with a hand to the shoulder, and pushes something into my right hand. "She wanted you to read this before," he says in a low voice, "but you never gave her enough time. That was probably a mistake on your part, I think."

"Who?" I ask. But there's no response. I reach out around me with the Force, and sense nothing. I brush the air in front of me with my hands, and encounter nothing.

"He's gone," I whisper to Harat, and bring before me the item in my hands. It feels like a datapad of the most recent make we used to use in the Temple. Remembering the location of the controls, I flick on the screen, blinking in the sudden glaring brightness as the main command menu flickers on, and tells me of the lone message stored upon the device.

Tentatively, I select it, and read.

_Little Padawan, why did you refuse to listen? Why did you refuse to do what must be done? Now will you face the consequences of your dream._

A solitary, long-unprecedented tear rolls down my face.

_Courage, little Obi-Wan. I want courage. Go despite fear._

_Go._

I lift my eyes from the datapad to pierce the darkness of the interior of this desolate building. There isn't a complete absence of light, after all, and in here I can make out a massive, hulking shape, linear edges meeting at a point on top.

I walk forward numbly until my feet hit resistance, and reach out with my hand.

The surface is cool and incredibly smooth, feeling like seamless stone. I run my fingertips up and down, and find that while it seems to be perfectly flat, it isn't vertical. Rather, as I move my hands up, it tilts away from me. That, along with the faint triangular silhouette, convinces me this gargantuan structure must be in a pyramid shape.

I walk along the side, keeping my hand upon the stone face. Never do I encounter a seam. The smoothness continues for a long, long time…and then I reach the corner, investigating it with my fingers. It is as if the entire pyramid was hewn from a single block of this stone. What's more, I can't sense what's inside it, as if the stone itself prevented the Force from reaching in or out.

I frown, and keep walking along the edge. It doesn't seem long before I'm back where I started, and upon no corner did I find a seam. _How could someone form a pyramid from such a giant block of flawless stone? If such a block could even exist!_

I stumble over something, then, and barely manage to keep myself from falling facedown onto the floor. Harat is forced to launch herself off my shoulder, and I can sense her wheeling overhead, screeching in surprise and dismay.

Curious to find what I tripped over, and wanting something for Harat to find her way back to me, I ignite my lightsaber carefully off to the side, washing my immediate area with instantaneous red light.

"Harat?" I call, squinting overhead. She circles down to land on the ground beside me, squawking a complaint.

I bring my attention to the object before me.

Bones. A pile of bones, roughly in their intended arrangement, except for the broken spine and the arms drawn over the head with the face turned to the side.

I drop the datapad in disbelief. _These are the bones of a Chadra-Fan._ And the unmistakable scoring of a lightsaber makes itself clear against the frail skeleton.

Beyond that skeleton is another. And another. And another.

Now I face the consequences of my dream.

Dropping to my knees, I close my eyes, unable to shut out the horror of a fragment of loosed memory brought about by this terrifying conclusion.

_I killed them, Harat. You keep the company of a murderer._

My birdhawk suddenly shrieks, a heart-rending sound, and pushes herself into the air, flying rapidly up the side of the immense pyramid and coming to a rest on the top.

I blink in sudden puzzlement, the confusion shaking me out of a grief too deep to bear tears. Suddenly I realise: I can _see_ Harat, atop the pyramid, where I could barely make out the tip before.

Dawn breaks.

I fumble with my lightsaber, clipping it hastily to my belt before rising from the spot. The night has passed too quickly. I have a feeling the visions warped my sense of the passage of time. _Harat, come._

She obeys the command, cutting down through the air to swoop up just before hitting the floor and lands neatly upon my shoulder. Once I'm sure she's securely there, I hasten for the hole I cut. If I wait too much longer, the palace is certain to note my absence, and the instabilities the reaction might create is something I can do without, especially this early from my coronation.

The stone pyramid seems to bid me farewell, I feel, and I catch one last glimpse of it before I duck outside. The stone is glossy black, mottled with streaks of gray. Beautiful.

Then, as I run through the depths of morning city, the tears begin to flow.

* * *

"Your Highness?"

The voice intrudes upon my solitude, perhaps the one thing I truly have remaining to myself at times. I don't respond, perched upon the edge of the man-eating chair, gazing out the transparisteel window to my waking Coruscant.

I sense the attendant wishes to inquire as to my presence once again, but holds her tongue out of a healthy sense of fear.

And rightly so. I've killed before.

I wearily thumb on my voice after a long wait. "Yes?"

"The morning meal is…" She trails off as I stand and turn about to face her.

I cannot help but gape for a split second before controlling my expression, and I count myself fortunate that her gaze was modestly dropped to the floor. The word escapes unbidden from my mouth: "Sola?"

She starts, looking up at me in sudden fright before shaking her head once. "She was my mother, your Highness."

"Was?" I ask, with perhaps too much dismay. Rumours spread, and sooner or later the people will start asking questions, but I brush that off.

"Yes, your Highness. She's dead."

"Oh," I say inadequately, my hand making a valiant search before finally discovering the back of the chair to lean against. "My condolences. Your name?"

She evidently doesn't know exactly what to think about this, and her fingers start to tremble. "Ryoo, your Highness."

"Ryoo." I think for a moment. "Did your mother ever tell you about a young man named Kenobi?"

Ryoo pales. "Once, your Highness."

"What do you remember of her? Was she well?"

"She was well, your Highness."

"And…" I do not allow myself to falter. "How did she die?"

"She passed away after my father died, your Highness." Ryoo shakes her head nervously. "We weren't sure why."

I pause. "I will breakfast in here today, Ryoo."

"Yes, your Highness." She bows and leaves the room quickly.

I switch off my voice and allow myself a long silent sigh, glancing across the room to Harat, who perches atop her cage, watching me mournfully. Returning to the man-eating chair, I perch back on the edge, once again keeping vigil over the accelerating bustle outside.

_Harat?_

I hear her launch herself from the cage, pushing up strongly with her legs and flapping several times before gliding over to land upon the back of my chair, and from there she takes the liberty of hopping onto my shoulder.

I keep my gaze riveted outside to nothing in particular, and keeping my thoughts to myself. _Why is it, Harat, that I leave no legacy? That it deserts me?_

Harat screeches and leans forward, seeming to give me a chastising stare with that bronze eye.

I cannot help but smile. _Besides you, I mean. Force, you nearly looked like Qui-Gon just then._

She cocks her head inquisitively, still staring into my eyes.

I return the gaze. _Are you being strict with me?_

Harat then directs her own attention outside, seeming to ignore me.

_You're reproving me for feeling self-pity. Are you certain you aren't the true Harat, the spirit from the myth? Am I certain you haven't been conspiring with Master Jinn while my focus wanders?_

She warbles as if amused, still looking outdoors at the various transports and speeders rapidly moving along far below.

I bring my hand up and transfer her to perch upon my knee, so I can begin to rub the back of her head beneath the feathers. She half-closes her eyes in enjoyment.

_Strange,_ I think, _that such a creature as you gives her trust fully to one she's only known for half a day. And you seem to know me as if we've been together for years._

She shrills a staccato peep as I move too close to her ear, and I wince in sympathy for the irritation.

Only then do I catch myself with my other hand halfway up to rub my own ear. I freeze in astonishment. _What?_

Harat croons in annoyance at the pause in rubbing and rotates her head to mock-bite my finger, nipping it between her beak. I tug it out and resume stroking her head. _Sithspawn. I can muse over the occurrences of empathic connections later._

As if cued, the door chimes and I sense Ryoo's nervous mind once again. Somehow she has a way of spreading out her tension to the very air about her, it seems. Harat twists about to look, and I remove her to sit up on the chair's back once again as I rise.

Ryoo pushes the breakfast cart forward a little bit more and bows.

"Were you selected as a personal servant for your perception, Ryoo?" I ask, suddenly curious.

She studiously keeps her eyes averted from mine. "I am known to pick up on obscured cues, your Highness, but not nearly as well as yourself."

I smile. It feels wonderful to smile. Perhaps that is what the Sith have been missing all these millennia. "Thank you, Ryoo. That will be all for now."

She bows once more, and leaves the room.

Harat trills at me from her perch atop the chair.

"All right, all right." I study the food atop the tray for a moment, and select a piece of meat, then toss it to her. She snares it out of the air with a quick _snap._

Harat trills again, but not for food. She stares at me directly, as if to pierce through my skin.

I frown. "What is it?"

Then the communications centre in the corner of the room buzzes softly. I spin around, and sure enough: there's a caller.

Harat warbles, an uncertain sound.

"It's all right," I reassure her, rubbing my eyes several times to make sure I don't look half-asleep. Then I pace over and accept the signal.

A holo of a skeletal, aged, sallow-faced man vaults from the projector and bows at the waist. "Your Majesty." His words are concise, bitten off in the manner of a man used to issuing orders more than taking them. _A narcissist? _I wonder.

"Tarkin," I acknowledge with a nod, and suddenly realise I haven't an idea where that name came from. _At least it came,_ I tell myself, keeping a neutral face. _Be grateful for that._

He straightens. "It came to my attention that your Majesty has not yet called upon the completed battle station project."

"That's true." _Battle station? Was this what the inspection order was referring to?_ "I shall arrange a visit within the standard week. Was there anything else?"

"No, your Majesty." He bows once again, and I let the holo fade away.

Harat trills triumphantly, flapping her wings a couple of times while still clutching at the chair.

_Right,_ I think. _Perhaps I'd better postpone contacting the Rebel Alliance until I'm finished with this battle station._ I pause for a moment, then turn back for my chair and tug the food cart along, glancing at the fare upon the tray. The sight and smell of it finally wins me over and I feel hunger as I've not felt for weeks.

_Years,_ I correct myself dryly, and start eating.


	11. Janus

The bearer of evil tidings,

When he was halfway there,

Remembered that evil tidings

Were a dangerous thing to bear.

So when he came to the parting

Where one road led to the throne

And one went off into the mountains

And into the wild unknown

He took the one to the mountains…

— _beginning of _The Bearer of Evil Tidings _by Robert Frost_

* * *

_Janus_

* * *

My voice emerges thoughtful in tone. "It's a marvellous structure, to be sure. Undoubtedly the only battle station ever built on such a grand scale, and with the power to destroy an entire planet, it would indeed serve to inspire fear."

Harat shrills as if in amusement, cocking her head sideways to peer up at me.

"But that's the best I'm able to come up with," I tell her. "What am I going to do? I can't sound as if I'm quoting Tarkin's own propaganda back to him. To be quite frank, that's perfectly ridiculous."

She ruffles her feathers and gazes off disinterestedly through the transparisteel pane, this time to stars instead of city.

We're on our way to visit the largest artificial spherical object of terror this galaxy has ever seen. To my mind, any way I can plainly describe the thing sounds miserably inane.

"Perhaps I should simply make light talk with him. Do you think he's that sort of a man?"

Harat clucks disapprovingly.

"I thought as much. He doesn't seem to be very conversational. A rather pragmatic type." _And narcissistic._ I smile quietly. However I reorder, comprise, or substitute my words, it will turn out to be a most interesting meeting. _Ah, Harat, you're spoiling me. I shouldn't be speaking freely to anyone, really, for fear I completely lose my mind. At least no one else is in this room._

She shifts her weight and stretches a wing.

_Isn't it peculiar, _I think, _that a powerful weapon could be turned into a silly little metal ball with a few derisive thoughts on my part? A few comparisons to the magnificent and vast celestial bodies it passes among? I'm such a little Emperor in the same way, really. I must not forget that._

The ship shudders beneath my feet, and I know we're reverting from hyperspace, beginning the approach to the hulking battle station.

I smile secretly. I'd told Tarkin that I'd be visiting in and around a standard week. Or so I told him yesterday. Hopefully such an abrupt visit will gain me some knowledge of how he truly operates things. As such, I've ordered the pilot to give no out-of-the-ordinary transmissions of any kind, nor did I require an escort. It's me, the shuttle, Harat, and the small party of two officers and two Royal Guards.

Then I recall how brief the hyperspace trip was. It's as if we never left the Core. Which, in fact, we haven't. I was able to bring up the location of the Death Star along with the pilot of my shuttle just before I departed on this surprise visit. _So near Alderaan?__ It's almost close enough to begin orbiting the planet. Perhaps close enough to…?_

I shake my head. I'll reprimand Tarkin if he's so much as thought of even marring the planet. Demonstrations must be made on uninhabited celestial bodies, if at all. The very idea of obliterating an entire populated planet, even one reputed to house Rebellion activities…

The co-pilot approaches me, smartly dressed in the manner of all Imperial officers. He gives a respectful bow. "Your Highness, we are prepared to dock within the Death Star."

"Good. Do you suppose they suspect anything?"

"No, your Highness."

I nod. "Find Tarkin's location, and direct me there promptly."

"As you wish, your Highness." He bows once again and leaves me to the company of my birdhawk.

Harat warbles low in her throat.

"I know." I reach up and rub the side of her head. _If Qui-Gon's watching, I hope I won't disappoint him._

* * *

It's a very interesting idea, if not perfectly odd.

I walk between and slightly before the Royal Guards that accompanied me on the way here. They can see me perfectly well. However, it's a little different for those we pass by in the halls.

Our presence attracts much respectful attention from the others within the Death Star. They see two Royal Guards making their way through the halls with no escort, a mysterious but unremarkable occasion. Those who might have questions are wise enough to keep their mouths clamped shut.

I've learned Tarkin is currently within one of the operations rooms and is having a prisoner brought in. This rouses my curiosity greatly and I hope I'll be able to reach the room before anything terrible happens. I doubt Tarkin, being an Imperial Moff, is without his short-enough temper, control it as he may.

Our passage continues for a while, five minutes perhaps. My pilot did well in requesting a docking bay suitably close to the operations room. I'll have to remember to commend him for that later.

A pair of stormtroopers stand on either side of the room's door but seem to be compliant enough to the wishes of a couple of Royal Guards. They accordingly open the doors with little fanfare and allow us in.

The scene seems to be very close to what I'd expected. Tarkin stands not far from a massively wide viewport, through which can be seen the blue-green marble of Alderaan. There are half a dozen stormtroopers about, and one sorry-looking prisoner clothed in unfamiliar military dress, though by his posture alone he's feeling defiant enough. _A Rebel, perhaps?_ Other than these, there are some officers about the operations room going about their miscellaneous business, keeping everything running smoothly while their Moff focuses on the interrogation.

That focus is quickly distracted, however, by the approach of a certain pair of Royal Guards.

The look of surprise on Tarkin's face is almost worth the entire trip. "What is the meaning of this?"

I allow myself an irrepressible smile of satisfaction before releasing my hold on the minds surrounding me, allowing them to see all and sundry present.

Tarkin's expression then changes to that of one almost worth the past few years.

"I could ask the same thing of you, Tarkin," I reply in as cold a voice as I can manage to match my own facial cast, and glance at the one I suppose to be a Rebel captain. "Where did this man come from?"

"Your Highness." Tarkin bows abruptly. "Forgive me. He was intercepted along with a Rebellion operation departing from Alderaan. Intelligence has reason to believe his crew was carrying information and blueprints of this very battle station, as well as a Rebel consul, from the Outer Rim to Alderaan. Their corvette was spotted close to Tatooine en route to—"

"Enough," I cut him off, my thoughts running wild. _Tatooine?__ Just now? Was I on my way to intercept this force when I awoke?_ Suppressing a shiver, I look at the stormtroopers and the crew dismissively. "Leave us. Tarkin, you stay along with the Rebel."

The room clears of its excess population rapidly. It would be a blatant lie to say that the Rebel has any colour left within his face (though the interrogation likely didn't help), and Tarkin seems to be considering such an approach as well. I still cannot but wonder at such an effect my presence has on most.

"I had wondered, Tarkin, at your ideas for orbiting such a planet. I don't believe I'll bother to hear out an explanation from you, as I've already a good enough idea of what such a speech might entail. Now." I gesture out at the brilliant orb that is the focus of the Death Star's attention. "Concerning Alderaan. You will not employ any manner of destructive force upon it, nor any other inhabited planet that might serve as a military target. Consider that a direct order, Tarkin."

He remains stonily silent until I have finished, with a slight contradictory flicker in his eyes. I will have to watch this one. "Yes, your Highness."

I turn my attention to the Rebel. "What's your name, Captain?"

The Rebel really does deserve credit; he endures in silence, his fear contained and under control. Evidently he's had training for this sort of thing, but there is no training a non-sensitive can undergo to completely block his mind from a light probe, especially since I've seemed to become extremely adept at it somewhere along the line.

I give a slight mechanical-sounding sigh. "Very well, then, Captain Antilles."

Still, he does not flinch.

"What would you think of it, were I to release you and permanently cripple this battle station?" I make the question sound as if I'm merely curious, inquiring upon a whim. Which is not precisely the case.

His voice sounds cracked and dried, and somewhat hoarse, but he speaks with the same control he has over his emotions. "I'd think you were designing a trap."

I nod. "That's what I thought. Tarkin." I give him a warning glance, as the Moff seems to be weighing the idea of giving the Rebel captain a hefty blow. "I will advise you only this once not to interfere, whether you consider it to be helpful or not."

Their collective discomfort has increased exponentially within the past half minute, and I'm forced to contemplate what rumours this might spread. I need not be so worried about my image as what that might do to this Empire I feel is my duty to begin to heal. "Captain Antilles, will you please hold your hands up?" I approach him as he does so, and touch the locks on the pair of binders that were clipped about his wrists. It doesn't take much more than a bit of Force-manipulation, and the cuffs fall to the floor.

I then slip my hand inside my outer uniform jacket, and produce a datacard, handing it to the captain. "Give this, along with my regards, to Viceroy Organa as soon as you can reach him. I promise you, there is no fear of me stooping so childishly low as to attempt to assassinate him with a disguised explosive. You may inspect it as you wish." I keep my expression firm and unyielding, looking him straight in the face. "I will escort you myself to the nearest shuttle bay and see you off." I glance at Tarkin, who, to put it mildly, is incredulous. "Is that understood?"

"Yes, your Highness."

_I feel like I'm surrounded by droids, especially when I'm in Imperial company. Unpleasant. And I think I can make a very safe assumption that I do not like Tarkin whatsoever._ I gesture for Captain Antilles to follow me, and with that, head out of the operations room into the hall. This could prove to be a very long day, unless I decide to do something about it.

* * *

There was a talk with Tarkin. More resembling something between a lecture and a debriefing, really. I've given him a very special assignment.

As I walk back into my shuttle, Harat is there, perched upon the copilot's forearm. They don't appear to mind each other's company at all, but as soon as she spots me heading up the boarding ramp she launches herself into the air and spans the short distance with a couple of powerful pumps of her wings, landing with easy grace on my shoulder.

I nod at the copilot, and continue into the ship as he leaves for the cockpit.

_This is a momentous occasion, Harat, _I think, perhaps somewhat nervously. _Whatever happens after this, happens. But I needed to do this. I had to do _something,_ and hopefully I'm correct in following along this path._

She shrills a soft cry and nips the top of my ear.

I can still picture the scene how I left it. Tarkin, in the central control area, will soon be the only living sentient aboard the entire Death Star. Control, however, is something that has been taken from him. Standing amidst a tightly knit circle of security droids (the only ones to be found in the entire Death Star), he will witness the final journey of the battle station, which I've understood to be, to some extent, his brainchild.

My resolution is grim. The Death Star's destination is set; the coordinates are locked in. Its debut performance will be its last, a sacrifice to the system of a world that could have been destroyed itself, in turn.

Sweet irony.

It takes hours for the evacuation to draw to completion. Shuttle after transport after corvette pour from various docking bays. The battle station bleeds metal from its pores in all directions, the streams gradually taking shape into linear flows and grouping for a jump.

Harat watches the procedure with me, crooning low in her throat every now and again. I sense an unease within her, but I'm not sure of the reason for it.

This is the end. This is the beginning.

"Give the signal," I tell my copilot.

It takes several minutes, but the Death Star soon accelerates to a noticeable velocity from our viewpoint nearly one hundred kilometres distant. Ponderously it picks up speed, giving Alderaan a wide berth as it hurtles onward toward its fiery destination.

We keep watching.

A while longer, and the station gains a velocity close to lightspeed. At such an invariable rapidity, there is no question as to Tarkin's fate.

_Let the worlds watch. This is the price of abused power, stamped, sealed, and inevitable. This is the Moff's reckoning. What can be done with such an instrument of terror as has been constructed here?_

A movement of Harat's head beckons my eye, and I catch myself staring back into hers.

* * *

_"Almost there…"_

_"…womp rats back home."_

_"…estimated in range in fifteen minutes."_

_"…little cooked, but I'm okay…"_

_"…to onboard computer…"_

_"May the Force be with us…"_

_"…s-foils in attack position…"_

_"…now? In our moment of triumph?"_

_"…I have you now."_

_"…overestimate their chances!"_

_"…strong in the Force…"_

_"…I'm all right."_

_"…shot, kid! That was one in a million!"_

* * *

The vision of the outwardly expanding ring of light emanating from the destroyed Death Star overlays itself in my eyes and I blink several times, clearing the disjointed jumble of voices from within my mind that seem to pile on top of one another. _That wasn't real._

"The Death Star has entered the sun," announces the pilot.

Harat still stares at me, almost accusingly.

_Did I do something wrong? _I wonder. _Was I ever supposed to awake from Xiian? But no. If the consul had been captured, chances would be so very close to impossible that he or she would be able to escape with the plans. What am I missing?_

Harat turns her head to look at something, a movement so sudden I nearly start.

It's the youth, walking up beside me. All my subordinates are predictably oblivious to his presence. He's still haggard-looking, almost as a younger (and more becoming) version of Tarkin. But there is something very different about him, all the same. And his face almost seems to be a little more filled in than it was on Coruscant, or is it just me, perhaps?

"It's time to go," he says, moving in front of me.

Conveniently, I can still manage a pretence of staring out the viewport into the stars beyond, when in reality I study his face as he studies mine. _To Alderaan?__ Captain Antilles will have made it back by now with my message._

"Yes, go to Alderaan, and keep your original plan of going unaccompanied. Organa wouldn't be very receptive to a squad of stormtroopers, no matter how much of a diplomat he is."

_Very good.__ I'll be off as soon as I can manage._

His dark eyes bore into me, but I think I see a glimmer of blue for the barest moment. "Remember, time may well be of the essence."

I blink, and he is gone, leaving my eyes to focus on the stars billions of kilometres away.

Harat fluffs her headfeathers, straightening her posture majestically before settling down once more.

* * *

It's a beautiful day.

I run my fingertips along the smooth surface of the balcony's railing, absorbing the sights and sounds of a late Alderaani morning. I have some time to myself while I await an escort that will take me to my meeting with Organa's representative. I have received word that he is unable to attend, as there was some sort of conference scheduled for today. Quite obviously, we both wished my presence to be as inconspicuous as feasibly possible, and therefore he could not slip out of the conference, even for a meeting with the Emperor.

I still have to come to terms with that title. It feels unnatural. Although perhaps I shouldn't wear it comfortably at all. Assumption and complacency are deadly things to play with.

There has been no word of who this representative will be. I feel I might be in for a surprise of sorts, but at this point it feels as if there is little that would surprise me. Nevertheless, circumstance is notorious for making men eat those very words.

Harat is still wheeling above me in the rapture of flight. I had had enough faith that she'd return to me again, so I let her roam free for a while on this, her planet of origin. Perhaps it's fortunate that there are no other birdhawks around, or the call of the wild might prove too strong for her to resist.

Then I sense the presence of a pair of men approaching, and I turn to face them before their footsteps become audible, quiet as they are. One is the captain of the guard, and the other is one of his subordinates. The captain is a stout man of average height with steely gray, sharply intelligent eyes. The other nearly matches him in stature but he has the look of a follower about him.

"Your Highness," the captain addresses me once he comes close enough, bowing. "If you will allow me to lead you to your vehicle."

Immediately Harat swoops down to land neatly on my shoulder, tucking her wings in swiftly and eyeing the captain back, matching his penetrating gaze.

The captain takes this readily. Perhaps he has a birdhawk of his own at home; how am I to know? Turning about along with his subordinate, he leads me off the balcony to a path along the side of a hill, rounding a corner to the speeder sitting there.

It's an interesting vehicle, at least. The canopy closes off the interior, presenting the personal transport in the shape of a very streamlined box. Although, most speeders are in the shape of streamlined boxes, so I shouldn't be taken aback.

The interior is decorated in the simple elegance that is automatically identified with the typical and often traditional Alderaanian style. Some unusual shapes provide an eye-catching flair.

_That's it, Harat. What am I doing, being an Emperor? I should have entered into interior design. I missed my life's calling._

She warbles merrily as we accelerate on our way.

* * *

The place of meeting starts out as something of an underground warren. The speeder carries us directly into a tunnel carved into the side of a rising mountain, coming to a halt inside some sort of parking and reception area.

I emerge from the speeder, sounding out the locality with the Force, my senses alert to every movement of the Alderaanians that have accompanied me here.

The captain is one of them, and again I follow him to my destination. We enter a narrow tunnel, the dappled gray stone of the mountain on every side. It winds up very gradually. Harat shifts her weight upon my shoulder frequently, and I'm surprised at her show of uneasiness, as we've been in tight places before where she hasn't been noticeably affected. _Does she feel something about the situation, perhaps? Should I be leery as well?_

I feel that would hinder me, rather than help, at this point. Candour is what I'll need to get anywhere with Organa's representative, I think, and I had better start preparing myself for that mindset already. _Harat__, calm yourself. There's nothing amiss that I can sense._

She does relax somewhat at that message, and it helps me as well that I don't have a restless hawk clawing away at my shoulder.

The tunnel straightens out, coming to a platform where construction is merged with mountain rock in a building that juts out of the mountainside, a stunning panoramic view presented by the transparent walls on one side, where the other wall is still that fascinating natural rock.

Aside from me and the captain, four honour guards stand at each corner of the room, which stretches out but has something of a lower ceiling, perhaps three metres high.

At the centre of the room sits an elegantly carved table, and to my surprise, a girl of perhaps twenty, or younger still, stands on the end opposite from me. Her long white hair seems to ripple over her shoulders as she bows. When she straightens, a pair of pale green eyes stare at me, somewhat introspectively. "Welcome, your Highness. As I am sure you know, Viceroy Organa apologises for his inability to be present. My name is Winter."

"I thank you for your willingness to meet with me in private, Winter." _Interesting,_ I think to myself as I take a seat at one end of the table, the girl at the other, and the captain leaves the room as Harat hops to a higher perch on top of the chair's back. _There's always something more to find out about these Alderaanians. I wonder why they sent a girl so young? _I find myself looking to her hair, almost perfectly straight and worn long and loose in the traditional way of the adult Alderaanian. It's not the silver of old age, but a crystalline white, enough to reflect small rainbows as the sunlight filters in from the windows in the one wall, creating a sharp contrast of light and shadow on her young face. But there is something about her manner, her poise, that strikes me as altogether mature for her age. _That would be a key ingredient for a responsibility such as this. One of Organa's trusted aides, most likely._ "I'm sure there is some uncertainty as to the reason of this meeting, correct?"

She hesitates, for the barest moment. "Yes, your Highness. Though, if I may be so bold as to say, there are some thoughts it may be connected with the recent destruction of your battle station."

I smile a little. "Yes. Those beliefs are not unfounded. I have eliminated a superweapon I viewed to be more of a threat than a safeguard to this galaxy. I arrived at that conclusion through a very confusing and unprecedented process, however, and I have reason to concern myself with the possibility that I will not be believed in what I say."

Winter's eyebrows lift a little in surprise. "Your Highness?"

I lean forward on my elbows. "How secure is our conversation, Winter?"

"Quite secure, your Highness. All you say will be as confidential as you wish it. The guards may take leave if you like."

I silently debate the wisdom of this. _Asking them to leave may rouse suspicion, but if premature word of what I have to say leaks out, which would cause more damage?_ I arrive at a decision. "Yes, I would appreciate that."

The silent sentinels leave the room, seeming to glide out the door. Winter's demeanour does not waver at the prospect of having herself unguarded. _Perhaps she realises it wouldn't make much of a difference._ Her eyes never take themselves off me, as if she's absorbing as much as she possibly can.

"You may not have expected me to be candid with you, Winter."

"I am ready for whatever you have to discuss with me, your Highness."

I smile thinly. "Very well. I will not try to be oblique about this, and I must ask the same of you, as well as a certain amount of objectiveness in hearing what I have to say."

"Yes, your Highness." And she is indeed ready and open, though somewhat wary. But that cannot be helped.

I pause for a long moment. "The proposal I have to make will seem absurd at best without some background information. Therefore, I'm going to start by telling you about something that happened to a young Jedi apprentice a little less than a week ago. I know what the standings of the Jedi are in this galaxy, Winter," I respond to the curious look on her face. "They are believed to be completely wiped out. Such assumptions can often prove to be groundless, though. This Padawan's name is Obi-Wan Kenobi. I doubt you know of him by that name. Neither would anyone else for that matter, but the story is important, regardless."

There comes upon a person, sometime in their life, a feeling that cannot be denied or pushed away. Often it's a truth that comes as little surprise, as if it's been dwelling within for long enough that the subconscious is well acquainted with it. Still, when it surfaces, there is no telling a lie, though that might have been cleaner. If there was a word, even a story to make this real to someone's eyes, to enlighten this upon them, I wonder if it would be any easier. I would not wish this feeling on anyone else. It is not something I have. It's something I've lost, and the worth of what has left me could not have been measured, can never be weighed as a tangible price. What I've done, who I've become, makes me glad for the lack of attachments. This future is an escape, but a sad one at best. Would my teachers have taken pity on me? Would they have forgiven me for this? I can't even, myself, can't take the shame off my shoulders…

_You've lost._

_You've lost._

_You lost._

The frozen moment just after the last word falls from my mouth thaws back into the fourth dimension as time speeds on without mercy. For a second my mind fools itself into thinking my thoughts might have been audible; Winter looks across the table at me, her comely green eyes pinched up just a little in a strange expression, curious, yet enough to tell me she is beginning to realise the implications here.

"Winter. Have you ever wished to forget the past?"

She hesitates, eyes dropping to the tabletop, and nods once.

I think I've touched upon something without realising it. But I keep on. "There is value in it, no matter how painful it may be. I have very little past of my own to draw from. I am told I have been in this galaxy for fifty-seven years. Out of those, I remember merely twenty-five."

Winter is interesting to watch. The average sentient might not be able to read the flickers in her expression, but I am able to connect them with the small pulses she creates in the Force. She doesn't want to appear withdrawn, but at the same time she believes she may be smelling some sort of confusing trap. It appears neither of us know what to think, which is a frightening thought in itself. But something within compels me to go on. "Palpatine used to be a senator from Naboo. You know this?"

"Yes, your Highness."

"Evidently, with the aftermath before you, it's now quite simple to see how he engineered his rise to power, starting as a mere senator from a unique but wholly unremarkable Mid-Rim planet, while at the same time he was one half of all that was left of the ancient Sith Order, him and his apprentice hidden from the scrutiny of the Jedi by the clouding effect of the dark side of the Force." I pause, and see she is genuinely curious. She's been told the story before, evidently, but not by someone with such inside information, though I only lightly touch upon it in my need to summarise. "As Darth Sidious, he proposed a bargain to the Trade Federation: let them start an invasion on Naboo, and they would be able to keep whatever they could glean from it. Reasonable enough for a coward like Viceroy Gunray, who was able to hide behind his formidable droid army. Naturally, the queen of the Naboo didn't take to such a blatant invasion and appealed to the Senate with Palpatine to support her cause, or so she thought. As Palpatine had predicted, the Senate was so entangled in legalistic processes, Queen Amidala became disgusted and called for a vote of no confidence in Supreme Chancellor Valorum."

Winter nods, piecing it together once more.

"This put Senator Palpatine in a most ideal position. With sympathy from other worlds in the Republic for the invasion, he won the election and was promoted to Chancellor himself. The Trade Federation was beaten away from Naboo, but to little negative effect for Palpatine. He had accomplished what had had to be done for such a rise in power. No matter how corrupt he may have been, one must give him some posthumous credit for his foresight and patience. It was ten more years before the Clone Wars were catalysed. He seized his emergency powers as Chancellor while his second apprentice, who was defeated at the rise of the Empire, oversaw the operations of the Separatists. Working together, they split apart the Republic, using the Clone Wars to rid the galaxy of thousands of Jedi, and the rest…"

Her expression doesn't flicker as I trail off. But there is a new coldness in her eyes, as if the green had frosted over. A coldness not only of accusation, but vaguely of fear.

I draw a breath and conclude in a quiet voice. "Before the Clone Wars, perhaps mere hours after the Federation had been defeated on Naboo, this Padawan Kenobi was taken prisoner and escorted offplanet by the Federation. At the end of that journey, he met Palpatine, who was then only a senator. And that, Winter, is where the memories end."

She is silent.

"Your hatred is not without reason," I tell her. "But I neither expect nor wish for your pity. I merely wish for you to see the reason behind my proposition. Speak freely; I will impose no consequence."

Winter expends another minute to collect her thoughts. "I understand, your Highness, that you suppose it was not yourself who worked for Emperor Palpatine?"

"It is not possible to plead innocence when no memory of the facts remain for argument. Perhaps I was a victim of circumstance, in part. Has life always been fair to you?"

"Victims of circumstance can often become victims of their own decisions following the event, your Highness." She seems surprised at her own words.

"You are correct. Would it be well for me to present my proposal now?"

"As your Highness wishes," she murmurs, still unsure of herself.

"There are two things I'd like to discuss not only with you, but the leaders of the Rebel Alliance: the presentation of a treaty, and the undercurrent I've been sensing of one real remaining power."

She blinks, but doesn't move. "Power, your Highness?"

"Yes. Even the Rebels may not know of what I speak. Well-hidden, so much so that someone not as well acquainted with him would never have sensed it."

Once again quick to the conclusion, Winter guesses what sort of being I refer to, and her fear grows.

I lean forward and tell her quietly: "There is one Jedi remaining, Winter. And I will see myself before him to be dealt with as he will."


	12. Revolve

_O Rose, thou art sick._

_The invisible storm_

_That flies in the night_

_In the howling storm_

_Has found out thy bed_

_Of crimson joy,_

_And his dark secret love_

_Does thy life destroy._

The Sick Rose _by William Blake_

* * *

Revolve

* * *

He laughs.

While I lie there, the stranger laughs, a manic inhuman sound that peals from his gaping mouth. His eyes flash too often with a crazed electric light emanating from deep within. The mocking laughter is drawn from every bit of his huge frame filling the doorway, a deep and yet screeching sound all at the same time. Ravenous. Predatory.

The worst part of it is that I'm laughing as well. It is my laughter and not some alien noise coming from my own throat, but it's every bit as mocking as his, as if I wish to belittle him by laughing, showing I'm made of the same stuff, telling him he's not so intimidating when compared with me. But it is not me that makes this. In reality, I wish to cry, as terrible as this monster is.

And it was all because, in this same dream, someone was killed out in the street while they were minding their own business. The murderer escaped, and the blame was pinned upon me. I am not faultless, I know, but neither am I guilty of that crime. I fled to this room, wanting to escape the accusing fingers, and that's when the man came, his eyes glinting with madness, his mouth working out terrifying nonsense syllables while no sound emerges. And he starts to laugh.

But now he turns, and leaves the doorway.

I should be relieved. I should want to shut the door to prevent it from happening again. But to my abject horror, I call out to him to come back. My voice has a driving desperation, as if something within me needs to feed off of the humiliation of my opponent…if that's what he really is.

There the dream terminates.

I've never had this one before. It comes as a surprise; I thought I had been breaking free.

Perhaps my subconscious wishes to tell me otherwise.

* * *

A respite. That's all this is. All it's supposed to be.

Why can I not gain respite from my own palace?

There are meandering voices that penetrate the walls, weaving in and out, penetrating my skull, pestering my consciousness, clamouring for my attention.

_"But then who would look after_ you,_ Master?"_

_"Surely you can do better!"_

_"I am my own, and my own is me…"_

_"What are you giving yourself to?"_

_"Young fool!"_

_"Shhhh. The baby's sleeping."_

_"…and weave among that star-studded sky!"_

Nonsensical. All of it. I shudder at the madness and clamp my hands over my ears, somehow knowing I did this to myself.

These voices could be the forgotten, rising to lay waste to what they can, or worse, the product of my fevered imagination. My inward pleas become tinged with desperation as I press to drive them away, and in the dim awareness of my surroundings I know Harat, perched nearby, is agitated with the smell of my fear.

I hope none of the servants come in. I hope this will all leave soon. I hope…

I grind my teeth. _Damn. What do I have left to hope for?_

Harat shrills an anxious cry, and I feel the slight impact of her footsteps as she comes up the side of my bed, hooking a claw through my sleeve and giving it a tug.

I let my hands drop, staring down at the wide brassy eye she focuses on my face._ I'm going mad, Harat. I'm being plagued with a past I can't even remember. Why was it me? Why did Sidious choose me?_

Again, her stare turns reproving, though she doesn't move.

_I know, you're right. It's not the _why_ that matters. Not any longer. I have to focus on what must be done, how I can use this position to turn the Empire into something different._

I turn my eyes through the window, to the city in its night. _How far do you think I can push it? Will I have to take this battle for peace one Moff at a time? Or can I unveil a single move that will begin the healing process? _My fingers automatically reach up to rub where the corners of the mechanical larynx merge with flesh. _I'm tired, Harat. If only I had a home left to go to._

She spreads her wings out, extending them fully and slightly upwards, giving one lazy ineffective flap before returning them to their position of rest.

I know I'm supposed to leave. The vision of the nameless youth doesn't have to tell me, not this time. I must go for a visit to one who has broken all ties with the rest of the galaxy. _Almost like myself, in that respect._

Harat croons through her beak and settles a bit, her feathers puffing out.

I close my eyes momentarily, feeling the scrubbed air drift into my lungs and back out again. I smell the faint aroma of freshly cleaned bedding; I hear the still silence of the room; I feel the cloth of my nightclothes and bedding against my skin. And above all, I know the Force.

Inadequate name. It's a pity that other words don't get much better, either. So little meaning in sound.

Harat stirs beside me and rasps softly in irritation. I open my eyes and see the quiet blue of a light blinking on the small table at my bedside. _A message, at this hour?_ Hesitantly, I take up the small screen, wondering what the communication might contain, and pull up the message.

It reads: "There is power in freedom but also more to be found. I have discovered one result of an interesting development. How would you like a fresh-minded pupil?"

Curious, I check for a signature; the message gives me no name but instead: "the Wayward", as well as a return number.

_The Wayward? Fascinating. Evidently Anakin, I should think, from that sort of signature as well as the fact that he has my private number._ My musings reach no alternate conclusion as to the sender's identity. _But where would he have discovered someone with enough potential for this sort of recommendation?_

Frowning, I start a reply:

"Send the pupil to me in three standard weeks with proof of your connections. I trust I will find latent sensitivity." After a moment of thought, I sign the message as "Kenobi", a name few know. A name that assures _my_ presence.

Self-reassurance, in part. Three weeks. I send the note on its way. Enough for a round trip to a certain Outer Rim planet with some visiting in between.

* * *

I return to him crawling.

It's a shocking statement when taken even in a figurative sense as it is here. Emperors of known galaxies do not crawl. Nor do they surrender themselves or anything in their belonging. They do not cringe, they do not apologise, and they certainly do not regret.

But I was never an emperor to begin with.

That conclusive idea is something I can agree with, at least. I never suited nor wished for the post. Well, not _me._ Still the memories of my twenty-year night-existence refuse to return, skirting the borders of my consciousness mockingly. There are so many secrets contained behind those locked doors… I wish badly to tap into it, and yet somehow I know I may desire just as strongly to drive them away again once they're acquired. _There's only one way to find out, really. If only I knew what that way was._

But I'm fairly certain one of the steps entails the journey I now engage myself in. Not so much a journey of the body as of the soul.

I left little information back at that cursed palace as to my activities and whereabouts. I instructed only a few servants that I was leaving for a trip that could possibly extend to a few weeks' time, accompanied only by Harat. Someone will end up asking questions, and the message will spread. It's likely that I'm not as worried about the public reaction as I should be, but I can hardly focus on that.

Perhaps, at the end of this hyperspace jump, I will discover the solace that the Imperial palace refused to afford me.

The strange thing is, I don't know where I'm going. For the better? It's a possibility. I entered the coordinates of my destination in a trance that I'd deliberately induced upon myself. I don't wish to know the name of the planet I'm visiting. That information is irrelevant. All that matters is that one particular inhabitant who dwells upon it. The one I told Winter I would seek out. The only one of his kind that truly remains.

Harat and I watch the riveting, flaring patterns of hyperspace converge into long white scratches of light that in turn dwindle to individual points, hundreds upon thousands upon millions of stars, the eyes that stare to this small shuttle as it enters back into realspace above the hanging sphere of an unfamiliar planet. Isolated somewhere beneath a layer of thick white tropospheric gauze is the presence I've been looking for.

I clutch the arms of the pilot's seat in sudden inexplicable fright. _He knows I'm here. He knows._

Harat warbles inquiringly.

I attempt to slow my racing heart. Panicking about it will do nothing for me. I have to think, have to approach this rationally.

Besides, isn't this what I wanted? Didn't I _wish_ to be found?

Smiling ironically, I begin to direct the shuttle toward a suitable landing spot the computer discovered. It's easier to breathe here. The very air feels more open, somehow, even if it still is the same stale canned atmosphere I was breathing from the moment I left Coruscant.

The shuttle slips down through fire, through cloud, and as I keep going I begin to see the spindly tops of trees reaching their black fingers in crooked paths toward the unseen origin of their light. It gives me a passing shiver, for some reason.

I slow the shuttle gradually, relying more on the navicomputer to tell me where to put down than my senses. I suppose that means I'm afraid. Afraid to reach out and find what I've been looking for.

_Ridiculous. I can't turn a blind eye, not after all this. Besides, I told Winter I'd see this through. Even that must be worth something. _I decide upon that as my accountability, regardless of whether I'll ever meet her again or not.

The shuttle's small enough for me to do a bit of basic manoeuvring through the trees until I find the spot to touch down, an appropriate enough size. I exhale slowly as the landing feet of the shuttle impact gently with the ground, compensating a bit for the uneven terrain; the floor's plane is still a bit tilted, though.

Harat stretches out her wings experimentally, extending her long primary feathers as far as they'd go. I find her fierce profile inspiring, in a way, and slide my hand in front of her feet. She steps upon the proffered perch and folds her wings, gazing up at me with something approaching a beatific expression.

I stare back for a moment, then move her up to my shoulder and start for the shuttle's boarding ramp.

It's time.

The tepid moist air, richly laden with varying smells of rotting vegetation, wreathes us as I step down to the sodden loam. The breaths I take lie heavy in my lungs and already I break into a sweat. The surroundings appear dismal, the dark brown trees and dimly green vegetation looking battered and half-dead, a whitish mist trailing low to the ground around everything.

Nice vacation locale. One could make a killing in the real estate business here.

Harat suddenly launches herself off my shoulder, and soars high with a few powerful pumps of her wings, swooping to land high upon one of the branches.

I pace up to the tree in a little irritation. _Harat. Come down here._

She refuses, casting an apprehensive eye about our surroundings.

Harat! Why don't you—

Then I sense it as I open up in curiosity. There's a malignant… something. A twisted point, a spot of darkness that blemishes the flow of the Force.

Harat screeches in defiance.

I decide to go for a vocal tack, thumbing on my mechanical larynx and calling up: "Harat. Come down."

Still she refuses.

I turn my back and begin to walk away, thinking that perhaps she'll become afraid of being alone and come back to me.

But that proves to be just as useless a strategy as trying to cajole her down. By this time somewhat exasperated, I keep heading away from the area. Besides, I want to investigate this dark side bloodstain, and perhaps it'll be easier without an uneasy birdhawk clawing away at my shoulder.

Before long, I come upon a tree, gnarled and seemingly dead. It seems as if the thing couldn't decide how to grow, nor which way was up, and the effect is almost frightening. I reach out with hesitant fingers to brush against the bark. It's somewhat rough but weathered all the same, unyielding as stone.

I venture around the three and past it. There seems to be some sort of cave—

"So certain, are you, that what you seek lies within?"

I freeze at the sound of that gravelly voice, my memory dredging up the one it belongs to with no effort at all. Slowly, slowly I turn.

His eyes are terrible, piercing and uprooting me, exposing all my lies and vices, laying out my past in a suggestion to discard it for the future. All that…and he only looks at me. All that from a simple stare.

I crumple to my knees in the whelming grief. "Master."

"No master have you," he replies sharply. "Past that, hmm? Emperor of the known galaxy. Pretend to have a master, you cannot."

"Master, please," I whisper, unable to look into his eyes.

"Come for penance, have you? Think, do you, that your ways will be forgotten?"

It's unbearable. I shut my eyes, finding I simply cannot face the barrage of the truth of my past, the collection of experiences that grow clearer in my mind with each passing day. _Perhaps it was my decision, then. My own fault. Anakin could have been wrong in his idea of the event. Perhaps I made the wrong assumption in thinking I was forced into it?_

There is nothing but silence for a long time, long enough that I can begin to feel the moisture of the ground seeping through the fabric covering my knees.

And I find Yoda's presence warmer, probing and inquisitive, gradually enfolding me.

I open my eyes and focus on his face. The austere expression has left for something unreadable.

"Found a place of solace, you have," he says gravely. "Willing am I to help—"

"No!" I cry out, scrambling to my feet and backing away a few steps.

He regards me with a show of moderate surprise, as if he'd thought of this possibility but hadn't regarded it as a likelihood.

"No," I choke. "You can't… couldn't let me! What I've done is—is irredeemable. It would be better to just kill me and be done with it."

"Pfeh," he grunts, shuffling up to me. "Thought this over, you have not, I think. Hmm?"

"Please, kill me," I entreat him with a note of desperation creeping into my voice, and I kneel down again. "I don't have anything left, nor do I deserve to li—"

His gimer stick shoots up with astonishing speed and power, catching me on the chin and shutting my teeth with a loud _clack. _Momentum carries through and I find myself sprawling on my back, slightly dazed if only for the sheer surprise of it.

"Argue not with Master Yoda," he comments, coming over to my side and peering down into my face with an expression I find most disquieting. "Rewarded, you were, for foolish ideas, yes? Dissuade you further, need I?"

I shake my head numbly.

"Good, good. Now, sit up, and tell Master Yoda why your bird not come down to you."

"She…" I push myself up. "She senses the convergence of the dark side, I think. It's in that cave, isn't it?"

"Yes. Twisted and disturbed the growth of the tree. Other effects it has, also." He waits expectantly, staring at me patiently for the completion of his statement.

I frown. "An effect on nature, overall, then? If it contorted the tree and disturbs Harat…"

"Only non-sapient life, do you think? Guard against it, must we not also?"

Realisation dawns. "It wanted me to believe I wished to die."

"Encouraged the notion, it did. Now see you what Master Yoda knew all along, hmm?" He prods me with the tip of the gimer stick. "Ready for another lesson, are you?"

I rub my jaw ruefully. "What do the outcomes depend upon?"

"Your willingness to listen and open up your memory."

Dark secrets still whisper at my ear. I shiver. "Will that help me, or hurt me?"

"Know your enemy," Master Yoda responds pointedly. "Know you cannot, if you refuse to learn. To learn, need facts you do. Facts on actions, judgements, beliefs. When know your enemy, do you, better will you be able to fight back. Better will you be able to keep what is yours."

It will help me through hurting. I don't particularly take to that sort of thinking, but guessing at any alternatives soon brings me back around. "Then I suppose we had better get on with this lesson."

* * *

He leads me over a winding path to his small hut; we travel through marsh, circumnavigate scummy sandbars, climb over rocky outcroppings, and weave through countless leviathan trees that seem to be waning in life.

Yoda's mud dwelling is a thing unto itself, miniature enough to hardly be seen, just barely large enough to suit his needs. _What else was I expecting?_ To my surprise, we find Harat awaiting my arrival, perched atop the hut in anticipation. She waits until I come closer, then launches herself into the air and vigorously dives at my shoulder.

And then, like cobwebs, it comes. Time stops and starts again, flowing erratically, motion blurring together into something drawn out yet simultaneous all the same, repeating itself over and over and over…

It takes a veritable eternity for Yoda to turn and look up at me.

His warped voice filters in gradually past the gentle dulcet tones of nothing, flowing at a rate unattached to the movements of his mouth, but things piece themselves together bit by bit and as time smoothes out what ripples it had, I hear: "…feeling, are you?"

I stand there for a moment, staring ahead to the veiled depths of the forest, shrouded in the cold mystery that threatens to seep its way back into me. "Master. Have you ever… have you ever seen an old man?"

"Many, have I seen," he responds gruffly.

"I mean in a vision. An old man, a woman, and a child…" My voice trails off. _What am I saying? It means nothing. He doesn't need to know about it; like as not it's mere nonsense._

Yoda stares at me for a second longer, then beckons me inside, looping a claw about in a circle before shuffling into his makeshift dwelling.

I crouch down to follow. There's a warmth within that was lacking outside, provided solely by the one fire blazing away in its designated alcove. It's small but crackles sharply, casting a rhythmless staccato beat. Master Yoda throws in some more fuel, and the questing fingers of flame wreathe the wood quickly in a passionate grip.

"Describe to me this old man," he says after a moment of emptiness, the air filled only by the sounds of the greedy little fire.

"He looked too old to be living. Frail and worn out. His eyes were clouded and unable to focus on much. Both times I saw him, he mentioned something about 'sidious plots' and bad business." I hesitate. "He was killed by the woman."

Yoda gazes into the fire, emitting a low thoughtful humming noise. "This woman and child. Mother and son, were they?"

"What… yes. How did you know?"

The gimer stick becomes employed in the task of stirring about the wood within the fire. Embers give off small sparks, some of them spiralling upwards to die. There is another long pause. "Many things Yoda sees that he did not before. Many things, there were, that evaded the sight of the Council. Your old man, were they. Dead is the Council. Dead is the structure of the Jedi."

The old man is the old Jedi Order! Why did I not see it?

I've become blind myself, perhaps.

"And the woman," I find myself whispering. "She was his downfall. She struck him on the back of his head and he was dead before he hit the floor." Anger rises. "She told me. She said it herself she was Sith."

"The child," Yoda cuts in abruptly. "Describe the child."

"He was a newborn when I first saw him, and a toddler when the old man was—was killed. He's grown, now." I rub my forehead. "Looks to be perhaps in his early twenties." _If visions have such things as years._ "He's gaunt; he had a very sunken look about his face a short while back, but he's beginning to fill out somewhat."

Yoda pauses again in thought. "See him often, do you?"

"He's been appearing for guidance," I answer without much thought.

The old master's ear twitches, almost absently, as he gazes outside. I can't begin to guess what he sees. Do his eyes reach a different level of thought, some hidden dimension to the universe only accessible to the enlightened? Does he tap into a source of abstruse power for a way to put the answer into small linguistic packages that might, just _might_ be of an appropriate size to contain enough meaning when he sends them across?

His gnarled old fingers wrap themselves more securely around the head of the gimer stick, and he raises the tip to poke me in the arm. "Want the lesson, do you?"

The question takes me aback in its seeming simplicity. "Of course I—"

"_Want_ it, do you? The entire lesson?"

I hesitate. Obviously there's more to it than the words imply.

"Hmmmm," he mutters. "Given the time, take you back to where your studies ended, I would. No time! Always against the galaxy, is time. Unlearning, there must be for you. Yes, much unlearning." He shoots another javelin stare my way. "But first, realise you must what you have learned. Gaps in your memory. Fill them in, you must."

I have the immediate sensation of a loss of warmth from my face. "What?"

He studies me. "Fear them, do you?"

I clench my jaw. "I have no desire to know what went on in those years unaccounted for."

"Answer my question, you did not."

I'd be a fool to try and hold a contest of wills against the old champion. But of course I'm a fool. I struggle to keep that gaze as I answer, my words taut and strained: "Yes. I'm afraid of what I'll find."

He stares, and nods his hoary head. "Afraid of the unknown. Dark, it is, in those corners of your mind. If jump you should, think do you that Master Yoda will catch you?"

_What a guarantee that would be!_ "I'm under no such illusion, Master."

"Neither should you be." He nods again after another moment's thought. "Tomorrow, we begin. Tomorrow, we find yesterday."


	13. The Waste Places

Though one were strong as seven,

He too with death shall dwell,

Nor wake with wings in heaven,

Nor weep for pains in hell;

Though one were fair as roses,

His beauty clouds and closes;

And well though love reposes,

In the end it is not well.

— _Excerpt from _The Garden of Proserpine _by A. Swinburne_

* * *

The Waste Places

* * *

The sun arrives over the horizon, though it's difficult to notice. It takes several hours for its light to thread its way through the clouds, the trees, the mist; by the time it arrives at the forest floor and swamp it is gray, diffused.

But still light nevertheless.

I sit upon a fallen tree, feeling the cool morning air whisper against my face, slowly moving along despite the closeness of the trees. It will be another two hours or so before the pungent smells of rotting vegetation rise to permeate the air, lending it a heated, moist feeling.

I awoke to find Master Yoda gone. Where, I cannot guess. Safe enough to assume he wandered off for purposes known only to him. Meditation or something like it? Perhaps. Either way, it's to a place I cannot follow.

I briefly toy with the idea of asking him to take on the rule of this Empire of mine. It's tempting, indeed. He would do a much better job of it than I with his far surpassing wisdom and experience.

_But asking such a thing of him would be completely unfair. I couldn't possibly._

I smile wryly. _Besides the fact that he seems to view all this as one big lesson for me. I wouldn't want to disappoint him by removing the opportunities to watch me squirm._

The swamp remains silent except for the occasional guttural croak from one of the winged lizards flying by overhead, turning in slow, gliding wheels before veering off elsewhere. The feeling of isolation here is incredible. Perhaps enjoyable, after all that's transpired in the past little while.

I rub my hand over my face in a world-weary gesture I never used to use. _Little while, indeed. I wonder how much Master Yoda actually knows about these missing years of mine. Would it necessarily be a better thing if he did, or if he didn't?_ I seem to be having more and more difficulty being conclusive, of late. _And is that the result of a lasting effect, or merely how events have been going just now?_ It could be either.

And again I'm inconclusive, this time about my indecision itself. Not entirely unpredictable.

A small splash catches my attention, and I turn my head to the right to see Harat slowly stalking along at the shore of a pool of murky water. She pauses, then labours a few flaps to get herself airborne. Circling back over the water, she watches it carefully, and makes a dive without warning, apparently unaware that I watch her in turn; her talons briefly disappear beneath the surface, shooting up hundreds of minuscule droplets of spray. She retracts her wetted feet with a disappointed whistle and swoops up to perch on a nearby limb, sinking the needlepoints of her talons into the wood as she leans forward, scanning the waters again in lethal earnest with her keen eye.

It's evident enough she believes there's something there worth catching, though I'd never have guessed so. Perhaps she can't smell the vile miasma rising from the pool, at least not to the same extent that I can. What sort of prey would be in that water that she'd wish to catch?

_Unless she's desperately hungry. But I fed her just last night._ Deciding I won't be able to interpret her actions quite so well as I might have hoped, my attention lingers on her movements a moment longer, until I quickly discover another fact:

She's not the only one being watched.

The idea of him startling me so badly is startling in itself. I nearly fall off my seat upon the dead tree, and reflect on the idea that Master Yoda's been developing a wonderful tendency to physically displace me, at the very least.

The grave humour I see in his eyes as I regain my severely upset balance is an enigma I can puzzle out later.

"How long were you there?" I ask him, righting myself back to a sitting position.

"Here, was I, since you woke," he tells me matter-of-factly.

_That long?_ I think in disbelief. "Were you hiding yourself?"

"Hah! Think you that all you cannot see is in hiding? That observant, are you? See everything to be seen?" With a grunt, he clambers up to sit beside me.

I'm not sure what to say to that. I silently clamour to myself in frustration for what an answer might be to such a question. Of course I cannot see everything. Of course I'm less experienced. Obviously, though, that was a reprimand for my behaviour, for my expectancy of omniscience.

Master Yoda ignores my silence and takes his time in choosing his words, like a carpenter selecting the right tools, or a weaver first examining the choices of colour before picking up his threads and establishing the design. Confident and deliberate.

"Find, you will," he says after a long pause, "many thoughts and feelings to be alien. In the beginning, know you may not how they came to be." He fixes his indomitable stare on me. "Learn, we will, at the end, when all the pieces are present. Ask questions along the way, but expect no answers."

I nod once, immediately feeling that for all my preconceived notions of the brutality that might have gone on, I hadn't nearly been anticipating enough.

The point of the gimer stick rises once again to prod me. "Most importantly: remember who is Obi-Wan. All else, a parasite."

And so we begin.

* * *

There was a goal, a vision that all initiates shared. The entire purpose to the existence of the younglings hinged upon what their future might hold, what role they might come to fill in the galaxy. Necessary to their development, of course, was the care received from their Masters, their own role models, especially the ones on the Council.

Those were considered by one mind to be the most dangerous of all, and therefore the first to be sought out for elimination. This mind didn't care exactly what the consequences would be upon the others in the Temple. Their fate would wind up the same as that of the Council members. Some might die quickly; others might present more of a challenge. It mattered not. This mind had brought traitor troops in to take care of the smaller difficulties. This mind—Xiian—would handle the rest.

It was a day of invasion, of fire, debris, and the smell of battle that cannot penetrate fighter canopies. Blood is not noticeable from up in the skies. Coruscant's spectacular buildings were mere needles toppling slowly, ever so slowly over as if mired in a thick fluid. The damage was not a desired effect, of course; preservation is a credit-saver. It would be expensive, after all, to start an Empire.

Planetary defences were penetrated and nullified. Confusion and consequent death took place everywhere and often. It was therefore no large undertaking to direct one's approach vector to the Jedi Temple; the fear of possible pursuit was immaterial. The Republic pilots were too pitifully small in number to see nearly everything.

Xiian landed first, his backup bare moments behind. Emerging from the one-man starfighter, he stared up at the colossal Temple, absorbing the sight of something that _should_ have been in his memory, by all rights. According to the thoughts within Sidious, it was the fault of the Jedi in the first place. He had had little trouble believing that. They hadn't known how to harness him properly; they sent him down a catastrophic trail that wound around the waycourses of his nightmares, and eventually doubled back here.

He burst into the Temple. Most of the Knights and Masters were out in combat. They'd be taken care of that way, for the most part. For now, he could concentrate his attention on those not so suited to fight while he searched for his targets of highest priority. The ones who got in his way would be dealt with as he passed; healers, the old, the young—

* * *

I break off. I break away! I can hardly help it.

"Wish for a friend, to help you through difficult times?" Master Yoda's level voice registers. "Dead, are they. Press on, you must."

I choke on my own words: "But _I _killed them—"

"Excuse, is that? Told you, I did! Reason for fear, yes. Now Yoda suspects you were not listening."

An inhuman rage rises within me, and I fight to quell it. There is a reason he's saying these things. There _must_ be a reason. If I do not always have faith in Master Yoda's amiability, at least I may have faith in his instruction. Besides, it's nearly inconceivable for a sentient being to pass through more than eight hundred years of the Order and not absorb a single worthwhile thing.

"Good," he says. "Regain control, you must. Now, we go back in."

A shudder passes involuntarily over my body. "So quickly?"

"No time to waste," he reprimands. "Continue, we must. Ask yourself: wish for healing, do you?"

I grit my teeth, and prepare for the continuation of this process. There is still so much dross to be burnt away.

* * *

—but he became distracted by the sudden appearance of a monster.

She smiled her pernicious, crooked smile as she kept pace with him, seeming to glide along. "Greetings to the pottery. Such a refreshing thing, seeing a work of art put himself to pragmatic use."

While the rest of his face remained set and cold, a conflagration of rage flared up in his eyes; he raised his blade and slashed at her head.

It might as well have passed through a cloud of smoke. Her posture remained unflinching as her gaze swept across the Temple mezzanine they stood upon. "I knew it would happen. All along, I did. Defending the peace, such a useless waste of time!" She leaned closer to him as if confiding a wonderful little secret. "The universe is chaos—that's what these Jedi fools don't seem to realise. _You're_ swimming along nicely, however." With a disarming wink, she was no longer there.

Her disappearance did little to quell the furious tempest that scorched on within him. It blazed on through the red fire that emanated so precisely from his lightsaber hilt as an extension of his own seething mood, funnelled into a structure that was so meticulously created for the express purpose of destruction.

The irony, of course, has always been entirely lost upon the Sith.

He made his way through various hallways, colonnades, even the archetypal structure of the library, housing untold amounts of information in its archives. Without researchers to make use of it, however, it would soon be rendered purposeless. He hewed down Padawans, younglings, even the occasional Knight or Master that had stayed behind for administration interests. Those were mostly, of course, the sorts of Jedi that had never placed particular emphasis on battle, now to their loss. Now to their death.

The young ones were everywhere. He found he had to continue this process of extermination into a wide area of the Temple, even up to the Council chamber where some had ineffectually hid behind the various chairs, directed there by the librarian Jocasta Nu before he'd stabbed her through the heart. It was little more than an nuisance, however. He was not the only one left to pursue them; the troops he'd brought were putting themselves to very good use. There were many of his men killed, of course, but that was all right. They were clones, and therefore could be replaced quite easily.

Long before this first stage of the Purges had been completed, the evidence of the conflagration that ascended from the Temple could be seen for hundreds of kilometres, sending up a thick, billowing pillar of stifling-dark smoke, staining the atmosphere with a blot of ruin.

* * *

"My master is most displeased with your apparent lack of progress."

The low-pitched voice resounded well in the cavernous chamber, echoing dimly in the recesses far behind where the bionic general stood, no one else to hear it.

Grievous shifted his stance ever so slightly to the side, well-aware that he was being meticulously observed even if the Sith lord's back was turned. Force-users had an uncanny way of discovering things when one least wished them to. "The situation in the Outer Rim has become less stable, my lord," he rasped, his metallic speech sounding out harsher as the acoustics of the chamber seized it and hurled it back at his audio receptors. "I require more troops—"

Xiian made a half-turn, cutting him off. "You have received troops, and in excessive numbers, I might add. This speaks of incompetence on your part, General. I remind you that you were sent to _win_ battles, not drain resources uselessly."

Somewhere within his globular, transparent gut, Grievous held a deep resentment for that young face which coldly carried its massive weight of authority behind it. Xiian's was not a practical façade, and that irked the general. He felt almost slighted that a _boy_ like this might attain such a sought-after position within the ranks of the Separatists. Surely Lord Sidious must have seen some talent hidden farther within that others would initially miss…?

Xiian slowly strode to the opposite side of the platform he stood upon at his end of the room, the throne-like chair positioned in the middle for when its master deigned to sit upon it. He paused, then his voice carried forth again. "Redouble your efforts where necessary. I will send Vader to administrate any changes in strategy that may be required. You will heed his word, or I shall be forced to reconsider your position of leadership."

General Grievous bowed, his lanky alloyed form bending gracefully. "As my lord wishes."

Xiian finally turned to look at him, pale eyes sending a simple but dreadful message that had been imprinted into Grievous' mind so many times before: _Do not underestimate the power of the Force._

Grievous supposed it was just another one of those things that a sentient had to live with.

* * *

"…charges against you."

The same chamber, again isolated except for the master and his guest. Echoes carried the sound throughout the room once again: _you-you-you-you-you…_

The slight form was crumpled face-down, half upon the floor, half upon the top few steps to the raised dais of sorts, hardly daring to move let alone look up to this captor's face.

He slowly paced closer, lowering his voice enough to prevent the echoes. "I repeat. You have been faced with charges of conspiracy against the ruling body of the Separatist movement. How do you respond?"

Sola Naberrie worked her fists underneath her, elbows bent so that her hands rested upon the floor underneath her neck, feeling the heavy binders about her wrists. She was a criminal for supporting the Republic? She was a convict for opposing the Separatist factions that had taken Naboo by storm? And yet while these denials echoed through her mind, the dryness of her mouth made it nearly impossible to speak. What a mockery of the Courts he was making. She ran her tongue over parched lips. How _would_ she respond? With her mind hazed over from days of starvation and hardly enough water, with threats of interrogation looming upon her at all times, the bright lights intruding upon her sleep… It was hard enough to think, hard enough to begin putting words together in an effort to placate this roused storm. "That allegation is groundless," she tried, remembering the phrase from the days where she would occasionally watch her little sister participate in the Senate.

No one knew where Padmé was now. Sola could easily suppose that she would soon follow her sister's path into whatever that unknown held.

"You have memories still of your first capture by the Trade Federation, I presume."

_That_ brought her back. His words triggered the startlement of coming out of hibernation, the charmingly earnest Jedi Padawan that had done what he could to get them both off the ship, the sudden meeting with Senator Palpatine and that smile of his, and then the darkness…

Sola involuntarily gasped. _The Padawan._

"Good," Xiian murmured. "You recall it. Now you may see what sort of a danger you might present."

She was still wondering why she hadn't realised it before. The voice was similar despite having more of a mechanical ring to it. There had been no holos she or anyone else could find with this Separatist leader's face, however, and now she was beginning to see why. Her head spun mercilessly, making it so difficult to think, so difficult to… to…

The toes of his immaculately polished boots ranged within her view. Her head rose automatically at the movement, and she caught the distorted reflection of her own features on those mirror-boots, her face wan, looking as if she'd gone countless days without sleep.

Which wasn't entirely far from the truth.

"Please, milord," she rasped. "I've told nothing of it before now. I can keep my secrets."

"I have nothing to ensure that."

Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, Sola came to the dull realisation that her life was about to come to an end. She imagined pleading to be returned to her family would do her little good; besides, she had no desire to reveal the existence or whereabouts of her two daughters to Xiian, though he would likely find that out sooner than later if he was truly bent on this vendetta.

Though she did not see it from her position, he regarded her with narrowed eyes. "It always seems a poor decision to raise a family when one has so many influential political ties."

She clenched her fists.

"That was one of few things the Jedi truly understood," he continued in a voice that was sharp, though low-pitched. "While the principle of non-attachment was a reasonable one, why did the Republic support a cadre of powerful abnormalities whose greatest strength and most terrible weakness simultaneously lay upon a concept based on unstable emotion?" Xiian tapped his foot once, twice, thrice before her face, as if demanding an answer. "You supported the Jedi—perhaps you have an idea of why?"

Sola knew she had to respond. Force knew what would happen if she refused. She'd heard tell of a few stories that had leaked out which described what this man had done to some who had failed to please him. Neither did she want to take the risk of labelling those tales as simple fear propaganda. "No one can… can be expected to reach perfection. Mortals are fallible," she stated, her voice slowly dropping to a whisper.

"Mortals?" His tone held a hint of incredulity. "You are such a fool as to think I speak of mortals?"

_Perhaps that word aggravates him,_ she thought, a little too late.

"Have you witnessed the power that a Force-user naturally possesses over a mere _mortal?_ Have you witnessed our lasting strength? The Jedi only limit themselves to a taste of immortality in the mistaken belief that they are the Force's servants."

An unseen hand closed around Sola's throat, hauling her up bodily until she came face-to-face with his hard, impartial expression.

His hands clasped behind his back, posture military-straight, he watched her struggle against the invisible hold and said: "The Sith know the nature of the Force. We are the masters: we are the ones who have claimed the control that the Jedi relinquished. While you might pray that the galaxy comes to see this quickly, I am afraid this lesson has come rather late for you, Sola." Xiian gave a dismissive wave of his hand; that single motion launched her backwards, hurtling infeasibly through the air until she came into hard contact with the back wall, nearly fifty metres distant, a snapping noise echoing back to his ears like forewarning thunder. The Force hold released, and her broken, lifeless body crumpled to the floor below.

* * *

It was akin to playing dolls, playing marionettes, his puppet over and against all else who were foolhardy enough to make themselves a part of the story. And now came the time to test how well he could breathe physical action into his enslaved chancellor, how well he could turn this corrupted old human into a living lightsaber of sorts, even if he was lightyears distant.

Rather handy, Xiian reflected, that he could absorb Sidious' energy, his power and focus, and make it his own to add to the devastating equation.

It was an animalistic growl that rose from deep within the chancellor's throat. "Are you threatening me, Master Jedi?"

The rest of the exchange was irrelevant to the outcome. An impossible red-tinged whirlwind erupted from behind the stately desk, hurtling over to directly meet the four Jedi grouped on the other side.

_Intruders. Deceivers._ Xiian allowed a cold smile to curl his lips. _Traitors._

Agen Kolar, Saesee Tiin, Kit Fisto. One after the other, methodically dispatched until there was only one remaining: Master Windu, who despite his incredible control was shocked to the core at the revelation that had just played itself out before his eyes.

Xiian's glazed eyes narrowed where he sat; Sidious' eyes narrowed accordingly.

_Jung. Balestra, lunge. Tierce-riposte. Shun…_

Windu truly was a Master of the Jedi arts, having effectively based his technique upon his practice of _Vaapad_. It was a sub-form of the most difficult of lightsaber combat styles, emotion fuelling the movements of the blade. Only a Jedi Master who knew his stand in the light well could attempt to master _Vaapad_ without turning dark; indeed, Master Windu was the only known Jedi who would remain in the light all his life while employing it.

The duel carried them on its current to the other room of the office area, the walls closing in blood-red in the lighting. A power flux crashed like a wave into the broad window, shattering it outwards, leaving only a few jagged, irregular teeth in the gaping mouth where the combatants stood.

Despite his advantages at being able to access Sidious' skill and energy as well as his own, Xiian was finding this duel to present a ponderous challenge. Windu's use of _Vaapad_ was beginning to drain Xiian's own resources, perhaps unwittingly siphoning the strength of the puppet strings away, and the Sith knew he would have to resort to exploitation of the precarious knife-edge that the Jedi Master balanced deftly upon. Xiian was finding it more and more difficult to keep solid control.

Which, of course, was why he allowed himself a flicker of satisfaction for his foresight. Windu and many others believed young Skywalker to be dead; perhaps seeing him come to thwart the Jedi's purposes would tip things back into Xiian's favour.

In a manner, though, Skywalker _was_ dead. It was frivolous to imagine him rebounding back to the side of his old Masters in the Temple. Anakin Skywalker's mentor had paid the price for his incompetence in his own blood, and Xiian had found Vader after the awakening.

The boy's ostensible return from the dead, then, was enough to cause something of a stir. Only Master Windu remained to notice it, unfortunately enough for him as he was rather engaged at the moment.

Retaining young Skywalker to one's side had its advantages. The problem with him, or at least within the Order, Xiian had surmised, was not that he was disloyal. Far from it; in fact, Skywalker could rank completely at the opposite end of the spectrum when it came to devotion, and that was from where the true difficulties with the Order had risen. So dedicated was the Chosen One that he would remain in staunch support of whatever he held fast to, and to the exclusion of all else if necessary.

The Jedi have never truly liked absolutes. Especially when it came down to the fact that Skywalker had been absolutely dedicated not to the Force, not even to the Order, but personal connections, and two in particular. His mother, and then his wife.

Peculiar, Xiian thought, how Skywalker's unwavering loyalty for Senator Amidala had ultimately reversed upon him and caused her untimely termination at his hands. But such was the way of things, and the lad had chosen the tail of a very dangerous beast to seize onto. Now there was nothing left for him, nothing remaining on which to declare his allegiance.

And so, lacking any other grip, he was loyal now to the void his life had become. It gripped him in turn, made him its servant, and advised him that the raw pain that had welled within from these scars he had worn all these long years would be best put to use at the moment in the interest of the removal of the theoretical second-in-command of the Jedi Order.

In the end, it was unimportant that Master Windu had kept his head above water for so long, unimportant how calculated his strikes had been, how precise his defense. In the end, no one cared how valiant his struggle had been against the dark. It was useless to search out any one last shatterpoint. Now Vader's red blade severed his hands at the wrists, now Palpatine's fingertips crackled with an electric surge of energy, and it was over.

From distances nearly unfathomable by the sapient mind to the ravaging flames of this very planet, Mace felt ten thousand deaths not his own before he came to his lone end as he fell through the depths of the black-turned skies of Imperial Center.


End file.
